She Lives Among the Stories

She has a bookcase for a heart,

And ink runs through her veins,

She’ll write you into her story

With the pen and paper in her brain.

Her bookshelf is getting crowded,

With all the stories that she’s 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 fine dust,

With its title in her finest writing,

“The One’s Who Lost My Trust”,

There’s books she’s scared to open,

And books she doesn’t close,

Stories of every single person she’s met,

Stretched out in endless rows.

Some people only earned a sentence,

While others owned main part,

Thousands of inky footprints

That they left across her heart,

You may wonder why she does this,

You wouldn’t be the first,

Why write of the people she once knew?

But she hopes one day she’ll mean enough

For someone to write about her too.