They’ve distracted. Attracted. Seduced. Been exposed to a dozen or more Spanish summers. They’ve nurtured, been a pillow to babies and children and some grown men too. They’ve waxed and waned, heaved and sagged.
More recently during their trial for treason they’ve been squashed in a mammography machine, subjected to MRI, biopsied using a device like a stapler and pierced with six needles containing radioactive dye. Found guilty, their sentence saw them covered with dotted lines from a permanent marker – like a butcher’s poster.
And then they were cut off.
Next they will be spread under a microscope and pathologised.
Once, they were lovely things. So lovely and the source of so much joy. But as my friend and colleague Jodie observed:
no amount of loveliness you get from your breasts compares with what you’re going to gain by losing them.