They quake with every step, the painful burden they call my chest. The part of me I'll never forget, the flat chest I'll never get.
Every month, I brave a look at them. If they're clean. I brace myself, then look down.
They're covered in scars, and I breathe in the sharp pain.
I feel my gut twist into a knot, dysphoria hitting me.
I double over, and tears slipping down my face before I can stop them. A wounded noise escapes my lips, and I sob and dig at my skin.
My chest shakes, and I get hysterical. I grab my hair and tug it. I hate this.
