Nipples on My Face

When I woke up that morning, the mirror didn’t lie — two perfect, fleshy nipples sat where my cheeks used to be smooth. They were small at first, like little pink secrets stitched into my skin, but by the time the sun touched the window, they were fully there, sensitive, alive.

I poked at one. A shiver ran down my spine. I tried to cover them with makeup, then with bandages, but each brush stroke only made them perkier, more insistent. They tingled when the air from the fan hit them. They ached when I laughed.

Outside, the world pretended nothing had changed. But I felt eyes linger too long, felt whispers brush against me like a lover’s breath. There was shame, yes — but beneath it, a thrill bloomed, wicked and warm. I caught myself in bathroom mirrors, gently tracing circles with my fingertips until I had to bite my lip to stay quiet.

By dusk, they’d become my secret crown. An obscene rebellion stitched to my skin. I thought about cutting them off, but something inside me hissed no. I thought about hiding forever, but the part of me that pulsed and begged under my fingertips wanted more than shame.

That night, I lay in bed, the cool sheets brushing them raw. I imagined kisses, teeth, a mouth wrapping around what shouldn’t be there — and when I finally slept, I dreamed of a thousand mouths pressed to my face, nursing my hidden hunger until I woke up sticky with a need I didn’t dare wash away.

When the sun rose again, I didn’t look in the mirror. I didn’t have to. They were mine now — these soft, obscene badges — a secret promise that I would never belong to anyone’s idea of normal again.