“Therefore I think my breast hath all/those pieces still,
though they be not unite;”
– John Donne,
“The Broken Heart”

The last man who touched my tits cut them off:
finally a guy who understood me. He keeps saying
I’m a “healthy guy” & I’m not sure if I should tell him
I’m not healthy — it’s just since I found out I could be
myself I’ve had a better attitude & I don’t eat animals
because it makes me cry & I don’t drink because it
makes me cry & I don’t go out that much or stay up
with people anymore because people just make me
wish I was with vegetables & flowers & roasting
roots in oil & herbs & sleep & being in love. I don’t
tell them how many weeds I smoke, how my body
is a temple to a god of burnt offerings, how my throat
is the altar of sacrifices. When I was a child, I sang.
But now there are too many ashes & only Men
have been very disappointed with me lately, looking
for breasts, searching my chest for more like baby
faces realizing I’m not their mother, or anyone’s —
I know they want that warm feeling & how they only
hate the idea of me, not me.