Ode to Boobs

When I die, I want to wake up in a paradise of breasts. Large and small, round and flat, pale and dark. They rise from the earth like hills, stretch across the horizon like mountains, hang from trees like branches, and lie scattered like stones. They form the clouds. A river of milk flows before me, bubbling down a gentle slope. I wander through hairs reaching toward the sky, past nipples as tall as houses, some dark brown, some bright red, inviting passersby to rest. Equipped with little wings, they flutter across the ground. I throw myself onto them, pressing my head deep until I can’t breathe, and they laugh, embracing me, celebrating my devotion.

You may call them tits, boobs, or hooters - I’ll call them God. Once a blasphemer, now I find redemption in their marvelous creation. Call me the breast messiah! I am building them a shrine, a church, a temple. Enter and behold the only true faith. Scientists are mere charlatans before my only Savior, reducing her miracles to skin, fat, and nerves - fleeting and nothing more. Doctors slice through connective tissue, glandular lobes, and lymph nodes, trading reverence for a fee. While I understand medical necessity, I decry beauty ideals that defile the divine. Leave God unspoiled! Butchers of the sacred can no longer hear me - their faith died long ago.

Anyone seeking to convert me away from my devotion is hopelessly misguided. I have seen my Eldorado, my paradise, with my own eyes. To the preachers of buttocks, vaginas, and feet: You’re praying to false idols! Let me guide you, foolish atheists. Look up and open your mouths, lest you squander your short lives! My hands wander, my gaze steadies, my pulse races. As night falls, the voices quiet, the covers drop, and I feel her warmth, her softness, her history. She embodies a feminine strength that, in its yielding, demands respect. No force on Earth could dissuade me now, my devotion is eternal. Take my life, God, that I may dwell by your side forever.