ODE TO MY BREASTS

Yeah, you've read right...I'm feeling myself right now-DEAL!

I used to get teased by school boys and fellow school mates when you pressed against the bib of my catholic uniform. I remember countless days crying all the way home, confiding in my mother about you two and how I wish you hadn't blossomed so early. She would dry my tears and told me there's no use in crying. "Get used to 'em, love. They aren't going anywhere anytime soon." she advised me in her thick British accent. She would then align my afro puffs and top it off with a kiss.

When I played hide and go freak it, I noticed the boys (and some girls) chasing after me instead of the broomstick girls. The first boy to tag me, would stare straight at you two, hug me and run away. You were getting all the attention. When I became the only girl in the second grade to have a training bra, the other girls got jealous and treated me like a freak. You became weapons that I couldn't contain. Weapons that protected my shy personality and kept my peers at bay.

I would do pop-ups, the Roger Rabbit, even the robocop while jumping double-dutch. I was bad! But it was you, lovely breasts that drew the crowd. I just psyched myself into believing they were mesmerized by my rope skills.

In middle school, I tried to shun you from the public. It was the MC Hammer era when things were baggy and the colors were bright. It was a D.A.I.S.Y. age and I was into dancing. You got in the way. But like my mother said, you two weren't going anywhere, anytime soon. You made yourself known to the world, even when I tried to mask you. You'd cause two big bumps underneath my shirts as if you were under pressure, ready to blow.

Then high school came and it was the time of tight tops. I began to appreciate you more as I noticed many senior girls were jealous of the fact that I had a perfect cleavage line in the ninth grade. Boys walked up to me, but they talked to you. I didn't mind. It was attention all the same. When we'd (cheerleaders) perform during half-time or at rally's, your fans would cheer for you and stare in awe.

Today, you've never let me down nor cease to amaze me. You're even more perky and soft than before, just heavier than grade school. You get stares wherever we go, especially when I dress you up in that dyshiki halter top, specially designed for you. Oh, you knock em down with a punch, breasts! Literally.

You get me that man everytime. We tag team and I say, "Go!" and you work your magic. I love it when you take charge and do all the thinking. You casually brush up against his chest, pretending as if there's not enough room to get by. They never fail to fall for the bait. Or when I'm asked, "How much did you pay for those?" I just smile, stick you out even further and say with pride. "They were free, you stupid fuck-They're natural."

At the end of the day, when I take off my bra, you sometimes surprise me with bits of food that didn't reach my mouth earlier. Are you saving those crumbs for me? Thanks, but not thanks breasts. I'm cool. Just another example of how you look out for me.

I love you breasts. Thank you.