#&shilo

I’m trying not to cry in the middle of the living room but I feel like a jar of butterflies left open, I feel like empty air where something significant used to be

I want to be deceased and pinned up in a museum on display

There’s something in the dregs of this body that has to do with loneliness and worthlessness, and every time I accidentally step in a puddle of that lonely, my shoes soak through and I feel marooned in a sea of insignificance. 

We want attention, we want life breathed into our bones, we want people to ask and talk at length with us about the golden threads of our stories. We want the company of people who work their fingers through the fibers of our beings and try to categorize the unwieldy chaos they find there. We want to speak of worlds turned to dust here, we want to speak of paper cities and people caught in the old glass tubes of an antiquated television, we want the words that spill from our lips to bring with them memories of homes left to ashes mixed in with the ink, of heartbreak written out in 4/4 time.