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.
The bookshelf's getting crowded,
With all the stories that she's penned,
Of the people who flipped through her pages,
But closed the book before the end.
And there's one pushed to the very back,
That sits collecting dust,
With it's 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 people she's met,
Stretched in endless rows.
Some people have only a sentence,
While others held a main part,
Thousands of footprints,
That they've left across her heart.
You might wonder why does this,
Why write of people she once knew?
But she hoped one day she'll mean enough,
For someone to write about her, too.
~e.h
YOU ARE READING
Don't Forget
Ficção AdolescenteThis is a story of a fairly average teenage girl. It's not an extraordinary story of how she got superpowers and became a superhero, nor how she is some kind of chosen one. No. This is a story of a girl who chose to leave something of hers for the...
