My Breast Reduction.

My boobs when I was 13 were small. I wanted them to be bigger. I still looked like a child. Barely poking through my shirt, I wondered when I’d look like a woman. A beautiful woman someone could love.

My boobs when I was 14 were enormous. Swollen, monstrous, sore. Everywhere I went, eyes followed me. No longer the smiles a child receives, safe in the world. Predatory gazes. Invasive gazes. Each step bounced with pain.

My boobs when I was 29 were full of milk. Bigger than a human head. Spurting milk so fast my infant son gagged and couldn’t nurse. I would wake up to pump around the clock so I could feed him breastmilk without him choking. They leaked. They stretched every fabric that tried to cover them. Exploding from my body with milk, and heat, and pain.

My boobs when I was 42, one day, sliced back through time. To when I was 13. Sore, but no longer massive. Scarred. Franken-boobs. I am a child again. Will I be able to run? Jump? Reach? Rewrite my puberty on the pages of my adult body? Maybe.