I suppose one of my biggest flaws is seeking refuge in bodies of people with skin as thin as sheets of paper, during storms that will pass within a night. People are not homes, they are roofs over our heads for days here and there, but we cannot renovate them or tear them down as we please. They are what they are and we’re either welcome or we’re not. As the thunder crashes, my bones argue with my veins that are pumping everything but honesty to my brain. Honesty with myself, that for the hundredth time my ribcage will be used as a parking lot for people who leave just as soon as they arrive. People aren’t as dreary as the television makes them sound, they’re fascinating really, intricate beings each with imaginations of their own. Imaginations containing worlds, ones that they create out of their own somewhat foolish delicacies. That’s the thing though- they each have a world of their own. Some people are lucky, their worlds match up, collide even, making this whole concept of being alone not so scary. Allow me to let you in on a little secret, it’s not until you see the flowers in peoples shoulder blades and the constellations between their freckles that you will understand their world, not even the smallest part of it. Because in the end, a ribcage doesn’t make for a very good pillow, and skin can only protect you for so long. You need to build a home with good intentions for floor boards and walls painted with the colors of honesty and ambitions. It’s then that you can invite people into your home and allow them to help you cover the walls with adventure and bliss. Until then, keep your visits short and your hammer and nails in hand. 

This is all the sunshine I needed on this cloudy day, thank you love xxx

All I write about lately is memories, moments from the past, in attempts to drain them from my bones. It’s not working. Instead, my skin absorbs my words like a sponge and they sink deeper and deeper into me, finding new homes in the corners of my ribcage and at the bottom of my spine. They send waves of electricity through me, like telegraphs- trying desperately to make their way to somewhere other than my cluttered brain, trying to escape so someone much more worthy can hear what they’re trying to say. I’ve said that my words are just sounds and letters falling out of my mouth and collecting into clumps of somewhat intelligent phrases, but if I’m being honest, they are more like life preservers- keeping me afloat, holding my head above water. They save me. Over and over again. They hold me when no boy or man or human being of any sort will work up the courage to let truth fall out of their mouth instead of their eyes. Words give me another reason to be up at night, instead of the usual heartbreak falling from my tear ducts and the uncertainty of just about everything this world throws my way. Words give me more than that. They tell me who was real and who I sugar coated with my own dreary imagination, in delusional hopes that they would someday be who I thought they could be. There have been too many of those, “Thought they could-be’s”. Days spent thinking they could change, thinking their own foolish pride might be swept under the rug and in return a somewhat charming smile would grace my presence once again. But lies have begun to smell a whole lot like dior cologne and boyish smirks now tend to remind me of the things I hate the most.