Little scrap pup Junkrat holding his puppy crushes hand as they scrounge for supplies together.
Teen junkrat spacing out and doodling his crushes name in gun powder, pausing on his way to the scrap yards to watch the workers there sweating and gleaming in the sun.
Teen junkrat kissing boys. Snogging the bakers son behind the ovens and unknowingly walking about with two floury handprints on his arse, sending flowers made of tin and scrap to the youth who works at the mechanics, parading his latest crop of hickies for all to see.
- to work a job where the kids (6th-12th graders) come running towards me to tackle-hug me after only a week of not seeing each other.
- for a best friend who wakes up after going to bed for the night to ask me about my date, and is so dedicated to our friendship that we share our google calendar’s with each other so we can support each other in our busyness.
- to go on a date with a man who seems… normal. he took me to a dimly lit, tucked-away wine bar where we got to listen to a new-to-me artist, drink really good wine at a small table, and we had to lean in close to hear each other while the musician played songs like this one.
- to be able to build relationships with so many kids at my job that some of them sprint across the parking lot from the school to my office in between classes to ask me to pray for them before they sprint back without missing a second of class.
- that i have people around me who support and encourage self-care.
- for the ability to be so dang aware of my body and how it works and what hurts and what doesn’t and to build it stronger.
- for a dad that i can trade book recommendations, new music, and health + fitness information with. what a gift.
- for a mom who doesn’t wait for me to ask for help or support when i need it most. she simply shows up and she’s ready to dive in.
- to be able to talk about how close i am with all of my brothers and know that it isn’t just luck that we’re like that; we put in the hard work to be and remain close to each other.
I tend to be inherently good at stringing together a collection of syllables, in order to create something beautiful. I’m no stranger to the act of writing stories, and letters, and sonnets about the girls I claimed to love. I have described them as everything from powerful ocean waves to jaw dropping cotton candy sunsets.
But when I try to write about her, all that comes to mind is the fact that I fall asleep instantly in her arms, and that there is nowhere I’d rather be, than by her side for the remainder of my days. That I love her, in the realest and most grounded sense of the phrase. There are no misguided metaphors comparing her smile to the brightness of a thousand suns, because no matter how hard I try, she is the first girl I can’t seem to put into words.