In her head, she sits there with a big sign saying ‘read me’ because she feels like a dusty old book that’s been put to one side and forgotten about. She just knows that she’s filled with words waiting to be read. In fact, she opened herself up once and read a page of herself, and was absolutely captivated. She could hardly contain her excitement as she read those words on the page inside her. But when she looked up, she realised nobody had even noticed her, or her words, or her excitement. She was embarrassed and heartbroken, so she closed herself up and turned off the lights.
In her head, she sits there waiting for someone to open her up; like a book, or like a treasure chest. She waits for someone to cast some light on the spine of her innermost part. She holds great stories, great poetry, great worlds. She waits to be read. Her heart flickers at the thought of it; of curious fingers running over the paper; of eager eyes absorbing her. She waits for somebody to read her sign.