The dirty bra.

I still remember the touch of your soft skin when you first tried me on, and screamed that this was the best thing you have ever rested your breasts on. Yes, I blushed a little.

And when you removed the tag, folded me gently and placed me above your other bras, I felt a little pride and a little of more bloom in my slides.

I wasn’t your flashy and trendy one nor was I your favourite pink with a ribbon on them, but I was comfortable and pale, yes, but a comfortable one.

I remember when you refused to give me to your friend when she stayed up late at your home because it was “gross,” but I knew it was because you never want to let me go.

I still recall the way you patched me up with the sharp needles and unmatched threads with so much love, but oh wait, it was your mother.

I remember the firmness after your “3week workout regime” and also the sag after you lagged in the 4th week; the soreness during your periods and the numbness during your dates.

You rested me for your designed clothes and adventurous jaunts but picked me up when you were home alone.

I put up with your “I wanna punch my boobs” to “Oh, I wanna cuddle you to death” moods and from the treacherous acts of ditching me for the guy you met when high to the love you showered on me because you didn’t really care, right?

Aye! I performed my duty even when you left me untidy, left me to breathe in the stench of your sweat and worn out perfume. Aye! I forgave when you threw me into that box which turned me all sides, swirled and spun me all around with the other clothes. And when I came out drenched in water, you hung me up gently in a row. Wait. That was your maid.

I wasn’t the cool bra like your new ones in the closet; the strapless, the fitness, the padded, the push-up, the vintage, the chic, and what not!

But I was exactly what the guy with the beard (that tickled my sides) wanted. Though he crushed me hard and threw me away in the air, and you let me twirl before hitting the ground, I still miss the action as I lie firm under the stack of your old and dirty clothes; unfolded, unwashed and untampered.

And as I stare into the darkness of these closed doors which smell of soap and fresh limes, I wonder do you know who am I?

I am that bra in your closet, you never picked up after gaining an extra three pounds around your fatty pockets.

Yes, I am that dirty blue bra with unseen patches and unused fashions.


One thought on “The dirty bra.

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