She has a bookshelf for a heart,
And ink runs through her veins.
She will write you into her story,
With a quill in her brain.
Her bookshelf’s getting crowded,
With all the stories that she has penned.
Of the people who flicked through her pages,
But closed the book before the end.
And there's one pushed to the very back,
That sits collecting dust.
With its title in her finest writing,
“The one’s who lost my trust”.
There are books She is scared to open,
And the ones she doesn't close.
Stories of every person she met,
Stretched out in endless rows.
Some of them only a sentence,
Some a significant part.
Countless inky footprints,
Left across her heart.
Wonder why she does this?
Why write about them she once knew?
One day she may mean enough for someone,
To write about her too .