She has a bookshelf for a heart,
And ink runs through her veins,
She’ll write you into her story,
With the typewriter 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 is one pushed to the very back,
That sits collecting dust,
With its title in her finest writing,
“The One Who Lost My Trust.”
There’s books she’s scared to open,
And books she doesn’t close,
Stories of every person she’s met,
Stretched out in endless rows.
Some people have only a sentence,
While others once held a main part,
Thousands of inky footprints,
That they’ve left across her heart.
You might wonder why she does this,
Why write of people she once knew?
But she hopes one day she’ll mean enough,
For someone to write about her, too.