There was a girl who loved to read
She would read the faces of other people
Those tiny, hidden, subtle expressions
That were passive but she was capable

She could read the voices of others
Those who aged within the pages
Who stayed immortal in written words
Immune to the outside life changes

She would read atmospheres and moods
In order to know what to portray
She became a character who was dependent
On what the readers wanted her to play

She treated each new encounter
Like a newly rewritten page
Good ones filled with laughter
Bad ones became a cage

Stuck between the same pages
Trapped under the same words
Desperately wanting to flip to the next
A new page or at least the next verse

She was imprisoned inside a book
That gathered dust and was rarely opened
Trapped inside a story that wasn't hers
Only made her feel more broken

She was irrelevant, a side character
In a world that was not written for her
She was only a minor character
Who would not be cared for if she died first

She was a reader, not a storyteller
Her mind consumed people's stories
Lost and confused on an unwritten path
Consumed more of her prematurely

New character roles and labels
Became etched into her skin
All of what was expected of her
To survive the story she was in

With every word written on her
Strayed further from who she was
Every dialogue from which she spoke
Only strengthened her facade

But everyone is a storyteller
Anyone who has a life
She ventured off from the narrative
And created her own story line

She twisted the story's plot
To carve in a new script
To tell the story that is her
In memory of a misfit