She has bookshelf for her heart,
And ink runs through her veins,
She’ll right you into her story,
With the typewriter in her brain,
Her bookshelf’s getting crowed,
With all the stories that she 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 met,
Stretched out in endless rows,
Some people have only one sentence,
Which 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. 🥀
• when I think about the women I have loved (the idea that any of this is sinful), I think about how soft - how fierce - how wildly alive they have been. the way their footsteps fell against church floors like prayers; like tiny miracles. how they smiled at me like an exploding sun. I think about the girl I like. I think that love is an almost unbearable tenderness.
I think it would be a sin not to give it to you.
I am honoured to be here, writing about women.
key by @thegivingkeys ✨ ...
source - tumblr ...
Hey y'all I'm back 😭 sorry I been gone for so long but man I was busy w school, I didn't even have time to read or write much, but I'll be posting regularly from now on ...