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Road Trip! 🚙

by Rebecca Thomas


The Joy of Not Wearing a Bra | The New Yorker

I like the way most clothes feel on my bare skin: silk camisoles and thick knit sweaters and the patterned blouses from my grandmother’s closet. I like the way my breasts sound against my ribcage when I run down the stairs, like someone clapping politely for a performance that they didn’t particularly enjoy. I like how unassuming they can be when they haven’t been hoisted to full mast and fixed there. I like the true unbound shape of them, how they come to small points, the soft peaks of beaten egg whites. I like carrying around their weight, just as I like carrying around the rest of my body; I feel now, in a bra, the way I might if I housed an uninjured arm in a sling. 


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