Ten Percent
Last night, I saw a video
of a boob job.
Two seconds in, I had to turn
my head away. But, I still got
a good glance at the nerves
and the milk ducts
and the tubes
whose purpose is unknown
until you expel a baby from your womb
and give up your life to it.

Even with my eyes closed
and my head turned,
I could hear the beep of the heart monitor
the drip of the IV
the squish of the pink-red-brown flesh
inside this poor woman's tit.

I ached in sympathy.
I could feel the knife cutting open my nipples.
What was this masochism?
Glorified by the supposed beauty of fake breasts
rounded and supple
but scarred and empty.
The same heart beating beneath them
as did when they were barely A-cups.

I was always told not to judge
a book by its cover.
But I think sometimes, the cover is just hiding
what the book really means to say.