The Bra

She had unstitched her bra, stitch by stitch. She had been thinking about getting rid of it for a long time. But you don't just get rid of an undergarment like that, with a simple snap of the fingers. Of course, we all know this story: we know we have to part with this bra...

A little voice in our head has been whispering it for days, weeks.

Months.

Years.

But we all know you don't just abandon a bra like that. First, the body had gotten used to it, making the idea of ​​breaking free all the more daunting: this feeling of being stronger with it, of being naked without it... And, on top of that, there was the fear of no longer knowing how to manage without it. Without its help. Without its support. Indeed, did we even have the means to fulfill our ambition of emancipation? Could we face the world without it? Without the bra? Like in the blissful days of our childhood? We often prefer to be with something than without, to avoid the prying eyes of predators, to avoid offering jackals the sight of a bare nipple, for their hunger knows no bounds.

She had unstitched her bra, stitch by stitch. No, you didn't just get rid of a bra like that: several conditions had to be met to succeed in this endeavor: the right moment, the right place, the right scissors, and the right... seam ripper. In order to cut all the threads cleanly. In order to forget even the memory of the seams. In order to erase any desire to get back together.

She had unstitched her bra, stitch by stitch. With each thread that snapped under the force of her will and her sure hand, a surge of pleasure and relief reminded her that perhaps this was love. Knowing when to let go?

No, you didn't just get rid of underwear like that. Not with a gesture, not with silence, not with a nightmare. Besides, no one in her circle had ever dared before her. Steeped in political correctness and sermons chanted like weekly prayers, she was surrounded by suffocating dictates. Her fingers trembling, hidden from prying eyes, she had swallowed whole needles to free herself from this prison, but she couldn't say a word.

And then one day, the right day, at the right time, exhausted and crushed by the constraint of the underwire against her body, like a sleepwalker, she unhooked her bra and grasped the seam ripper with her other hand. She slid the blade of the seam ripper, gently, under the thread, and then with a swift movement, broke the line. With the tips of her nails, she grasped one end and then, slowly, very slowly, she pulled it out like removing a thorn from your foot. She severed the thread at more or less regular intervals. And she savored each sigh of the thread, followed by the sensation of its sliding, gently, carefully sucking it out. It was a release and a caress. An act of self-love.

She unstitched her bra stitch by stitch. Now it was in pieces. She set about destroying the fragments with scissors and began to cut. First into strips. And then finally into rough shreds. And as she cut, the memory of the marks on her body, the pressure against her bra cage, returned to her. The taste of pain, oppression, and constraint came back to her. Then rose the anger within her, the anger we've all been taught to suppress. To satisfy the lecherous, feignedly prudish eyes. And her own eyes blazed. Her demure hands danced to an increasingly frenzied rhythm. Now, she was dissecting the bra, tearing away every last recognizable fragment. And the more she sliced, the more a powerful excitement rose within her, a fire of blossoming, of fulfillment. Then, she worked, plunging the tips of the blades into the softness of the pads, sending forth cotton confetti, like on a wedding day after the ceremony. The light through the window flooded the booth where she still stood: she radiated. She was utterly swept away by this redeeming impulse. Soon, the bra's existence was no longer even suspected.

And meanwhile, very virtuous on her chest, her breasts witnessed the scene,circumspect, incredulous, and finally deeply moved by this new breath. They watched the hands crash down on the remnants of fabric belonging to the presumed perpetrator of their forced detention. They were grateful for the courage of those hands. Still shaken by this freedom, they nevertheless surrendered to the freshness of the outside breeze and finally swayed, nonchalantly, to the rhythm of the wind. The breasts swayed, happy and proud, certainly determined never again to let anything or anyone suffocate them. And she, she was born anew.

About the Author

A self-taught visual artist and poet based in Guadeloupe, Emilie Bosc (aka Karib) chose to dedicate herself fully to artistic creation after a scientific career. She now combines rigorous research with experimentation in visual and poetic forms. Her work explores themes such as invisible heritage, bodily memory, microchimerism, epigenetics, emancipation, Caribbean matrilineal traditions, intersectional systems of oppression, and human relationships.