Breasts

My breasts feel pendulous and heavy, a burden I don’t remember signing on for. Divine laughter. Maybe I was a man the last life with a glorious wife with sexy pendulous breasts. I dreamed somewhere inside of me to become her. So here I am, miserable, fleshy bags holding me down. I did not know her burden, the feeling of her flesh from the inside and now I do. Missing my tiny rosebuds. Or, perhaps in my last life I was a young woman, dreaming of someday growing her own pair of tits. But alas, my life was cut unseasonably short and as I was flying through the tunnel of light into my next life I screamed “Let me grow! I want to grow old enough for giant jugs that bounce and wave and eventually fall to my knees!!” And here I am feeling them droop towards my knees with the weight of hatred, sadness and powerlessness that life doles upon one from time to time.