I'm frightened of breasts that coat themselves in goosebumps,
of boobs heavy with swollen water and fat, heavy against my ribs
and pulling skin and back down ever down with the weight of attraction,
bound running, and terrible lancing shame.
How can you say you're not terrified the way men started to stare,
blatant in the line at coffee, obvious at the grocery with my mom,
in class, the teacher's eyes drifted low each time I raised my hand.
I'm frightened of breasts that heave with breath against my clothes,
tight and spilling upwards from my bras, and tender,
so tender from your pinching glares.
