Poems by Rose

The Proper Fit

 

Boyfriends are like bras—

they come in every cut and class:

some built for comfort, some for show,

some barely there, some overflow.

 

Some come in satin, silk, and lace,

some simple, sturdy, built for pace;

some black as midnight, red as sin,

some sheer enough to show the skin.

 

Some cost a fortune—and they should

when stitching, shape, and straps are good;

you pay for structure, strength, and stay,

for something made to last all day.

 

Some come quite cheap and still succeed,

no fancy name, but what you need;

no polished package, pomp, or fame—

they hold you up just all the same.

 

Some are transparent, plain to see,

no hidden hooks, no mystery;

some padded proudly, puffed with air,

promising more than may be there.

 

Some fit so softly, snug and right,

their arms around you, warm and tight;

they lift you gently when you’re low

and guard the tender parts you show.

 

The proper one will leave a trace—

a little line, a lasting place;

not every mark is meant to bruise:

some simply say, I held you close.

 

But when the wire starts to sting,

when every clasp becomes a thing,

when something sharp keeps breaking through

and stabbing where it shouldn’t do—

 

don’t twist the strap, don’t make excuses,

don’t call discomfort “normal uses.”

If every wearing ends in pain,

you do not owe that bra again.

 

Unhook it. Toss it. Clear the drawer.

You’ve worn enough of that before.

There’s always one with softer seams,

more room for ribs—and room for dreams.

 

Some women need one every day,

a little lift along the way;

some women let the whole thing swing

and never miss a single thing.

 

Some like them lacy, loud, and bright,

some plain and practical and white;

some want one close, some want one rare,

and some are happiest going bare.

 

Because no woman, dressed or free,

needs straps disguised as custody.

A boyfriend, like a bra, should prove

that holding up is part of love.

 

So choose your color, cut, and size;

ignore the ads, the brands, the lies.

The best fit isn’t what looks grand—

it’s what can lift and understand.

 

And if he pinches, pokes, or scars,

while claiming that’s just how men are,

then thank him for the lesson—ha!—

and throw him out

 

like one bad bra.