My heart is a mess. A beautiful mess. Perfectly Ruined. Splendidly destroyed.
And now you're a just a stranger with all my secrets.
Sometimes, I'm the mess.
Sometimes, I'm the broom.
On the hardest days, I have to be both.
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's getting crowded,
With all the stories that she's penned,
Of the people who flicked through her pages,
But close the book before the bed,
And there's one pushed to very back,
That' still collecting 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 person she's met,
Stretched out in endless rows,
Some people have only a sentence,
While other 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.
