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.