Originally published in Little Patuxent Review

Breasts like dumplings. Breasts like
cauliflower bunches,
breasts like ravioli.
Breasts like puddings or tepid
oatmeal,

breasts felt for ripeness,
breasts bursting in hands
like cherries, or
zits, or
naked mole rats

Cut off my breasts and boil them in milk,
watch the post-pubescent fat
melt into shining grease. A thin disk of skin
clots the surface of the pot,
my nipples watching with tiny snail eyes.
Breasts like escargot.

Blood makes the steam go pink,
papillas erect.
Stannic saliva drips
from gore-bubbled mouths.

I spoon-feed my wounds breast-soup
so their teeth will grow in strong.
I smell my heart-beat on their breath,
lips wet and red
lips wet and red

I lean down
to french-kiss my lungs

(wet, red) (wet, red)

Instead, I start to sing.

Aimee (she/her) is a twenty-seven year old poet living in Nevada. She has cerebral palsy, a pulse, and a pen. Her work can be found in several literary journals, including Fifth Wheel Press and Daikaju Zine.