She has a bookshelf for her heart
And ink runs through her veins,
She'll write you into her story
With the typewriter in her brain.
Her bookshelf's 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 dust,
With its title in her finest writing;
'The ones 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.
