she was the library book
he couldn't give back
he didn't care
about the consequences of loving her
for her story
was one he loved more than the works of
Charles Dickens or Oscar Wilde
and the words were buried
deep under her skin
where only he could open her heart
as if it were the pages;
finding her story
alongside her pain
and reading it
over and over
trying to find some way
of fixing her
whilst still loving her
for all her withered pages
and hidden stories