My Breasts

My breasts.
My knockers, my funbags,
my titties, my ta-tas,
My love lumps, my love muffins,
My hooters, my jugs,
My boobies, my girls,
My melons, my chi-chis,
My bosoms, my sweater puppets,

My breasts.
See, my mammaries have been displeased
With all these pen names they’ve been forced to work under.
My chest is distressed from this mess of misnomers it’s been cloaked in.
These euphemisms created by my male counterparts, such an art, guys, really,
but I think you’re missing my meaning.
See, I’m no angry feminist hating on men, but you guys need some pointers,
so please take this in.
Boys...my breasts aren’t your play toys but I invite you to enjoy them
if you promise to adore them and not try to hoard them as your own and please don’t pinch them, or rub them so hard they feel like they’ll fall off!
They’re attached, you know!
Don’t go back and forth and back and forth, no woman wants that course of action,
get some sense!
Don’t suck and suck like your mother’s teat,
you’ve been weaned too long to be holding on to some Freudian notion of juvenile pleasure.
Don’t yell at me from across the street, “Nice rack!”
Did I ask for your approval? I’m very aware of the...qualities I possess.
And if you think that your crudeness is cool to your cronies please reconsider that your words are just bitter perversions of desire,
cause you KNOW you can’t have ME.
Don’t think I don’t notice you staring me down in the grocery line and pretending to reach for a magazine so you can lean in to see in my cleavage.
Don’t think I won’t pop you one right in the kisser, cause mister this sister has HAD it with men who think my self-esteem is pieced together with poor pick-up lines and honks from your dodge neon, PLEASE!
I used to think that my breasts gave me power over men,
I could tower over men in my five foot three frame because I became the master,
But I was all wrong, see, 'cause I won’t be a woman who uses her body as a weapon against the male species,
I want to use my body for running, for dancing, for hugging, for lov-ing.
My breasts aren’t ME.
They’re a part of me that happens to be made fabulously.
But that doesn’t give you free reign to ogle and fondle,
and openly express your judgment on how I must be eas-y 'cause all you see’s a great pair of
breasts.