A tale of two titties

When I grew to love my breasts,
I was not yet 22.
My teenage thirst for an ample chest
had worn me through and through.
I remember the day when I awoke with confusion,
To observe what I thought was surely illusion:
a pound or two more of flesh on the bow,
had given me reason to hang in there, somehow.

It's ironic I suppose that, not a year later,
my contempt for my breasts could not have been greater.
Those two mounds of fat that once I'd adored,
became an aspect I completely abhorred:
That cavernous cleavage resembling a bum,
that monoboob shelf that had been my best chum...
All of them features that now I detested;
and to think - how I'd longed to be lavishly breasted.

So, now, here we are,
I'm not quite 22.
What is it that's happened
to change my point of view?
It shouldn't take a detective
to see it from my perspective:

My nipples may drag
and my mounds may flop,
but they're mine,
all mine,
and I'd never swap.