Breast

So, thanks to the hyper objectification,
The hyper sexualisation,
of breasts,
When my milk is full, bursting
pain through my chest,
All you see, is Pamela Anderson,
Saving broke couch potatoes the expense,
of masterbation material.

And, if you paint me beautifully,
And translate my name,

Wambui,

from Kikuyu, to Kiswahili,
You’ll call me zebra.
But if you force my baby to be hungry,
You will face the lioness.

Yet, if I’m in public, when my daughter is thirsty,
And don’t have a bottle,
You’ll name it a wet T-shirt contest.

So, while the NAN can tells me,
that mothers milk is best.
It’s not accepted, in public,
For me to pull out my breast,
And, were I to forced to respond honestly to the ‘awkward’ stares I would get…
I may feel forced to rip their eyes from their sockets,
To force them to confess and atest to,
The fact that human body parts,
Have more functions than sex.