When you’re young, thunderstorms seem scary. Like the sky is angry at you. But now that I’m older, something about its roar soothes me; it’s comforting to know that even nature needs to scream sometimes.
You are beautiful because you let yourself feel, and that is a brave thing indeed.
I want to get in an argument with your mouth
that neither of us can win,
tongues twisted up like roots.
I want to kiss you and feel like I am growing.