I

f the breasts you love
were cut away
leaving only ugly,
insensitive scars
I'd be afraid

that the pleasure
you take in them
is irreplaceable
and would be turned into
disgust
as you ran your hand
over unresponsive flesh.

I'd be ashamed to share
my body with you
or my heart,
ask to have you love
an incomplete, unsexy
pseudo woman,
scarred by knife as well as life.

You said once,
"It wouldn't matter,
I'd love you still."

And so say I to

Your arms can still hold me
and mine you,
encircled in the warmth
we craved so long
and did without.

Kisses, still,
and caresses
the seeing-into-my-soul eyes,
the haven where
we can be who we are

would be as pleasurable
no matter what
is scarred or shriveled.