How do we have enough toe nail to last all of our lives?
Sally wonders what's inside boobs.
She and I are the only ones who have to
wear a bra in the fourth grade,
so we talk about boobs
while everyone else wonders about toe nails for a few more years.
One day, Ms. Miller hears us talking about boobs
and we have to go to the principal.
She doesn't understand why we have to talk about boobs
since we taped and wrapped them after the
sixth grade boys tried to steal them.
In seventh grade the other girls get our fourth grade boobs
while we move on to wired bras.
High-school boys want to kiss us and we think we may be popular.
In ninth grade we are changing in the locker room
and a girl gasps, pointing at our breasts.
Everyone stares.
Sally and I look around at all the girls' stone pink breasts,
pointing straight at us.
We look down at our own;
stretch marks sinking into nipples
talking to knees,
our tummies nowhere to be found.
Sally and I swear never to take our bras off again.
But I know Sally has broken her promise
when David tells the whole school about her grandmother tits.
We turn 15 and we want small boobs.
My parents say okay because of my back pains.
Sally's parents don't agree, however.
She is too young.
They prefer she walk around
with bra cuts on her shoulders
and weep like a widow.
Sally cries when she sees my scars,
telling me over and over again that they are
so
so
beautiful.
And she asks me, very quietly,
what, after all,
was inside boobs.
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