Angry, and looking for reassurance that I am allowed to be, in a way that only women do.

There is always magma beneath the stable ground, there is always a new volcano forming in the sea. I will build a world, raw and hot and sharp and pure, and you will never step foot there. I will grow it black inside the ocean waves, the rising of a bright basalt. Green for your envy, the kelps that grow to trees, white for your fear, the oysters that grow limbs and eyes and mouths. When it rains, I will be fed, and you’ll be gone.

We cannot choose much of who we are—queer, introverted, graying early, survivor—but I have never been so proud to be what I am than when I am with you
What I am most: is grateful, tides of thankfulness that break on me perpetually, a rolling cataclysm of adoration for your kindness, your sensibility, your support
I have always been a saltwater sea but now I think too an igneous outflow, something sedimentary in the way I will build whole worlds to bring you safety, happiness, sunshine