A little article I read somewhere said you were trying to get rid of me.
Possible cause of cancer, it called me.
Restrictive to healthy flow of toxin-flushing lymphatic fluids, it said.
Well, that article didn’t have the story quite right.
I’m still here.
I’m the support your mother can no longer give you.
The phantom touch of your ghost child holding your heart.
You think you can get rid of me?
You think silly science chatter will silence me?
You think wrong.
My underwire bites like hell
And like the gods in hell and above
It holds all your shit together.
With my help, you clutch at the straws of your youth.
For you, I say screw saggy flesh.
For you, I say abolish aging.
For you, I say terminate time.
For you, I say raise high the breasts!
And yet, you thought you could get rid of me . . .
I hold you like many men and women wish they could
I keep you safe from the cold
I wear fun colors and patterns to perk up your day
I’m a fun secret sometimes, aren’t I?
Yes, sometimes I itch
But sometimes the bottom of your feet do too, don’t they?
Would you want to get them removed?
And when you complain that when I’m strapless, I fall
May I remind you that I prefer the straps?
I strap you in
I keep you safe—
I’m a freaking transportable seatbelt for your boobs!
(saving your life daily, thank you)—
I keep you warm
I’ve been there for you when no person has
I’ll support you always.
I’m closer to your heart than anyone else.
Remember that when you try to name me something as nasty as:
“A possible cause of cancer.”
You can try to get rid of me,
But I’m still here.
And I’m here to stay.
Shannon Magee is a recent graduate of Wake Forest University, where she livened up campus life by running around in a cow onesie and sharing Irish poetry with the community. A passionate writer of both poetry and prose, she has been previously published by Brilliant Flash Fiction, and she plans to pursue a career in writing and editing, when she isn’t unraveling the patriarchy inch by inch.