you’re seventeen, a little rough at the edges and full of glass that you’ve tried to pick up again and again. you don’t know how many times you’ve shattered little pieces of your heart. maybe it’s every time you send a look at a boy, notice your heart is doing something a little faster then it’s usual ba-dum ba-dum and it’s more like badumpdabumpdabump.
you’re seventeen, and you meet him. he’s a little rough at the edges too, and by rough you mean sweet, full of energy and clumsy hands and broken glass, but it’s not broken glass from a heartbreak. broken glass from a trip down the stairs, from being too full of life, broken glass from trying too many things at once.
you’re seventeen and he’s seventeen, you’re imperfect and he’s imperfect but you realize that’s okay as two imperfect pieces slot together in form of your lips and his.