Violent thunderstorms make me think about the way your chest felt underneath my cheek and how your hand on my waist made me feel alive again – no where near dead, nowhere near done or undeserving. And when the lightning strikes I cry from somewhere deeper than usual knowing how badly I want, need you to light me up that way. I hate myself for falling apart from a simple touch, from a few hours at a time, a handful of kisses, a shoulder I clung to and buried my face in for comfort.
But big girls don’t cry and we choose logic over love and security over sensuality and we build these big, sought after prisons run by a boy who doesn’t deserve the labor and we wake up each morning, look ourselves in the mirror, and say “this is what you wanted”. A prison of our making, a loneliness of our doing.