I call them my tits because that’s what they are. I hate them. I hate my tits.
I’m scared of what will happen without them. After getting used to them for so long, flattened, pressed hard, tight around my ribs, black elastic wrapping my torso. That’s what my chest is. Those are my tits.
I’m used to this. Binding. Doesn’t that mean ‘uniting’? We’ve merged, my tits and I, in this co-operative of sorrow.
I’m scared of what will happen without them. My tits. My breasts. When they disappear from my chest. I’ll be able to breathe, not again, but for the first time.
My tits, so close to my heart, have kept me away from most. Hurting me, warning me: we are still here, we will not disappear.
I’ve had a hard time breathing. I’ve had a hard time being. But that’s normal now. That’s ordinary. Without tits, is life going to be extraordinary?
My tits. I spit and I scorn them, for ever having to adorn them.
But I’m scared of what will happen without them. My tits. That’s what they are now. That’s what they’ll always be. I stumble enough when trying to explain what they should be. Explaining away the bump on my chest, cutting them off, is that what’s best?
Take a look at my chest. You won’t know they’re breasts. You won’t know they’re there, and you won’t know they’re gone. Without them, life will just go on.
And I’ll call them my tits because that’s what they are.