I love my perfectly imperfect breasts…
I grew up being very attentive to my skin, a stray teenage pimple warranted an hour-long visit to the dermatologist, scrapes on my knee meant that I spent days applying vitamin-e cream to make sure no trace of the scabs or bruises would linger.
My breasts were no different. I wished they were bigger when I wanted to fill out halter-tops, I was glad they were small when I didn’t want to wear a bra under tube tops. They were never perfect (unusually pale, too pointed, droopy) but I loved them still because they were mine.
One afternoon that love was tested in an unfortunate incident with a curling iron, tangled cords and a hairbrush serving as a microphone. The burn on my breast was so deep that the nerves had been severed and I didn’t notice it until I got a closer look in the emergency room. This time there were weeks and months of creams and vitamin e, and the mark didn’t go away completely.
Now I love them for another imperfection, because they are still mine and I’m still glad to at least have them.
