There is surgery. Surgery is the extreme though. There are binders and hormones. Those deal with breasts too. But there's nothing like surgery to leave vicious scars across a newly flattened chest. Ah to have them gone and but a memory that I can erase as I toss my bras away.
Pitiful, they are. Bouncing lobs of fat and condensed hate that will be displaced soon, so soon, sooner if the mother would agree to let me take the right hormones. Oh let them inject me with testosterone and let me watch as the embodiments of everything wrong fade away.
The body's a cruel instrument that marks and mars its way through my life. Girl-girl-girl it yells to the world as I oppress it under a flurry of hurricane wishes that scream BOY-BOY-BOY. I long for the release of looking in a mirror and knowing THIS IS ME. No more this is she, an entity apart from myself. Oooh, I'll seize that catharsis like one snatches a lover. And lover I'll snatch once I shed this form for the male ideal (ideal I won't be, mismatched parts that don't fit a confused answer to rushed prayers in the morning).
The body that knows and the mind that lives. Frozen gifts from a God.