Trigger Warning: Sexual assault

“When my body started showing the signs of puberty, my chest ached. My boobs were pushing my chest walls to bulge out. I remember they were not even formed properly, when my uncle started pressing them. Then my music sir caressed them occasionally. A stranger in the movie theatre did not fail to scare them. The scars were there and are still
there.

My boobs were compassionate enough to understand me and rise up when I tried to push it up with a wire.

With peer pressure, I fell in love. I loved him with my whole heart. My naked boobs, and not my trust or love, gave him the right to abuse me physically and mentally. The bruises on my boobs gave me enough strength to come out of that torture. To rise again.

Life moved on…bruises faded. Another man came into my life. He embraced my boobs while healing my scars, kissed my boobs while loving my heart, sucked my boobs while tasting my soul. That was the kind of commitment my boobs needed after what they had gone through. Every time my boobs are naked before him, they breathe. A breath of respect, a breath of individuality and most importantly, a breath of freedom. Am lying in the tub now, my boobs are immersed in water and my baby bump is bulging out.

My boobs have started pouring out liquids to show that they are ready to feed my baby. I often remind them ,“You hold bruises of lust, scars of chauvinism and marks of love. In you are a scared kid, a rebel teen, a victimised lover and a compassionate wife. In you a nurturer has been born. No six-inch rod can be compared to your power. You are beautiful.”

They wanted to be drawn in a bathtub with their baby bump showing.

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