As the tears run down my face, I tell myself it's okay.
But as the days go on and the pain increases.
I slowly turn to stone.

People may think I am cold,
but the truth is I'm just a girl who feels too much.
I am a girl who cares too much.

I seal myself off in hopes of saving my heart,
and it is not until I am alone.
Under the cover of darkness, that I let my self feel,
what I have been hiding.

They are on the tip of her tongue.
The words she wishes to say.
Internally, her mind is racing.
Her thoughts, jumbled.

How can she tell him what's on her mind without him turning away?
How can she explain that when he is around, the words stick.
That when she thinks about what to say she becomes sick.

She grabs a sheet of paper,
and a pen.

Her thoughts begin to untangle,
the storm in her mind becomes calm.
The words that were stuck like glue begin to flow onto the page.
They flow with ease, and with grace,
right onto that perfect , white, page.

Does she dare show him this page?
Does she dare open herself up?
Does she dare leave herself vulnerable?

Does she dare?
With a pen and that piece of paper in hand,
she asks herself
"Do I dare?"

Write a book.
That’s what everyone tells me to do.
But what if it’s not my story to tell?
What if I don’t want to write a book?
What if the stories I have to tell are much deeper then any of them could ever dream?
Write a book they say.

My thoughts would flow off the page.
The story would never end.
The story I would write would not be the one that they want to hear.
Write a book they said.

What if I write a book?
Will it end the thoughts I have?
Will the finality finally sink in?
Will they be mad it’s not the story they want to hear?

Write a book, they said.