A Letter to My Bra


Why must it be that when I wake up in the morning, I feel as if I am obligated to cover my chest before I even put real clothes on?
Why is it that I am no longer fazed by the marks and indents left on my skin from constraining myself?
When you are removed at the end of my day, I breathe a sigh of relief.
But why am I not able to loosen myself from this feeling of restriction all the time?
You should not dictate what I can and cannot wear, you should not police my feelings of comfort and discomfort.
My concern should not lie with whether or not I am "filling out" a shirt enough, and I should not feel as if this sweater or that dress only looks good with your presence.
My areolas are no different than a man's, no shameful piece of me, so why do I feel as if it is a requirement that they are hidden?
You should not become so attached to my body that going out in public without you is unthinkable, that I am gawked at should I choose to let myself breathe for a day.
Why is this daily routine of pulling at straps and tugging at bruising underwires considered normal to so many?
Beauty is not pain; beauty is confidence and unshakeable self-love.
I do not deserve to live with restricted parts of my body, to be limited by a socially constructed idea of what is and is not acceptable or beautiful.
Breasts are not a badge of honor, nor are they something to be ashamed of.
You are not a requirement for my gender.
You are not a part of this skin.

Sincerely,
Peyton

Photo Credit: The Iceland Monitor, 2014

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