She has a bookshelf for a heart,
And ink runs through her veins,
Sheโll write you into her story,
With the typewriter in her brain,
Her bookshelfโs getting crowded,
With all the stories that sheโs penned,
Of the people who flicked through her pages,
But closed the book before the end,
And thereโs one pushed to the very back,
That sits collecting dust,
With its title in her finest writing,
โThe Oneโs Who Lost My Trustโ,
Thereโs books sheโs scared to open,
And books she doesnโt close,
Stories of every person sheโs met,
Stretched out in endless rows,
Some people have only a sentence,
While others once held a main part,
Thousands of inky footprints,
That theyโve left across her heart,
You might wonder why she does this,
Why write of people she once knew?
But she hopes one day sheโll mean enough,
For someone to write about her too.
-Erin Hanson โ
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