My chest is obsolete,
The B cup mass a cheat,
The stitching neat,
A tuck, a pleat,
Yet halter tops still sweet...
I know it was just meat,
And cancer's not a treat,
The boob delete,
Survive, compete,
So am I incomplete?
I entered a competition with this poem, the topic was obsolete and whist the feedback was good, I think the angle was not what had been anticipated.
Reconstruction is always a tricky one, it nearly killed me (a closer call than the cancer actually, twice...) -nothing like a nurse running to theatre with your bed (despite my having just eaten a bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes) to make you glad to be alive!
