I was married when I was 13.
We didn't say vows,
or kiss in front of a crowd,
but we held hands until the night pulled us apart with its greasy fingers;
because at one point, it told us,
you always have to go home.

We kissed bitterly but sweetly,
We brought fiery coldness into each other's hearts,
and we promised ourselves to each other
between butterfly kisses
and with loud but quiet whispers.

You left trails of fingerprints all over my skin,
that itched constantly,
that seemed to only be soothed
by your salty fingertips.

We never stopped saying our vows
and between kisses that made our lips raw and red,
even years later.

We said them when we cried,
when pieces of our heart trickled down our faces,
the part of ourselves that we always tried to keep hidden
was pulled out,
naked and shiny,
for the other to see.

We both tried to hide our happiness,
between our arms or in each others' shoulders;
but we both couldn't deny that we were so happy
to be so accepted
by another
that we weren't supposed to find so young.