ten ways my tits robbed me of my adolescence

a tragedy in 32D

“Hey, your bikini top!”

I didn’t know where the voice came from but I instinctively covered my chest up.

“What? Oh, oh my god. I’m so sorry!” I said to no one in particular and the open skies above.

Exposed, ashamed, out of breath with a mouth full of saltwater, I clumsily tried to readjust my bathing suit. The Atlantic having ripped it to shreds one too many times I grabbed a towel and slumped into my beach chair. Feeling betrayed by my own body and making excuses for its existence was beginning to be the norm around here. Maybe it was easiest to just cover the godforsaken thing up.

I was 12.

These breasts, these fucking tits, seemingly appeared overnight. I went to sleep an 11 year old and woke up no longer a girl and most certainly not yet a woman. My mother, appalled that she’d already have to face the burden of taking me for a bra fitting and marry me off while I was still a virgin, told me to take off my turtleneck and wear something baggy in the meantime. Being forced to wear t-shirts purchased with my father’s Marlboro miles while everyone else explored their own personal style was just the first of many transgressions I’d face at the hands of my own, albeit perky, breasts.

Behold, a poem for my sugartits, as an older man once referred to them while I was walking to school.

I hate the way they made me cover you up, treated you like a sin

taught me to walk hunched over, hide my two scarlet letters like I was some middle school Hester Prynne

I hate the way those construction workers whistled, called me “jailbait”

told me to come back during lunch, they’d happily wait

I hate the way you invited the substitute teacher to yank your baby pink bra straps, just to hear them pop

I hate the way I laughed nervously instead of telling him to fucking stop

I hate the way you’d bounce and the boys laughed when I tried to run a mile

I hate the way the cashier glared at you while instructing me to “smile!”

I hate when mom said I should try harder to make you smaller, insisted you made me look fat

pointed to my starved war refugee cousins, said “why can’t you look more like that?”

I hate your nipples in the winter, they were always cold and obscene

the summers were no better, for me to remain a child you’d have to remain unseen

I hate the way the lighting in the Victoria’s Secret fitting rooms illuminated my adolescent shame

But mostly I hate the way adults convinced a little girl her body was to blame

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note: my boobs and I have come a long way and have since made peace. You could even say we’re friends now and often work together towards a greater good. God bless these 32D’s and god bless America.