Milk

They’re warm and damp around him. They’re streaked with blue veins. One’s bigger by a whole handful. It’s the one with the freckle. The people who’ve seen them in their adult evolution have all admired them very much, and he was no exception. They were covered in black lace when he asked if it was okay to touch them. I answered by moving his hand with mine to cover them. He laughed, his mouth touching mine. They’ve felt his lips over every inch of them and felt his facial hair tickle them. He’s hurt them a little, but this was okay with them. They’ve pressed up against his real girlfriend at his command. They’re large and pink; they didn’t know some were small and dark like hers. They’ve felt her lips on them too. His girlfriend says they’re kissable and nice. I did grow them myself.

They’ve ached. They’ve felt heavy and like needles were in them. They’ve been all alone. They’ve felt three pairs of lips on them before and soon it’s going to be four pairs of lips.

One day they’re full. They feel him pushed against them. He hurts them too, but differently than his dad did. They feel cold when I pull the baby away from them and place him in his girlfriend’s arms. They’re so tired. They’ve caused so much pleasure and sorrow. They’ve given all they can, and it’s enough. They’re icier still when they sink into the river water. But they wanted his son, and I didn’t.





Anna Lewis lives with her cats and enjoys instant coffee. Her work has been featured in The Flash Fiction Press.