I can wear those tank tops, tits flashing side boob like
it doesn’t matter, like there is no such thing as stretch marks,
flab or parts I don’t want someone to see.
When i was 16.
I can wear those tank tops, low cut stretch and sides so pulled
forward by boobs perking tight with only a bra; lace even,
out at the bars tantalizing to draw eyes I didn’t know yet
but would soon staring up from my knees in their room.
When I was 20.
I can wear those tank tops, too revealing that I’m wearing
at least another tank, or sports bra when I’m alone working out,
but wouldn’t dare shuffle about at the grocery, or to work,
maybe after coaxing for a dress up date so you can feel like role play
is more fun.
When I was 32.