The Story Keeper

She was made of them; stories.
She picked them up, one by one
Gathered them along the way she had travelled.
She collected them and held them in her heart
And they made her whole.
She kept them close and they kept her together.
She could lose herself in their midst and yet find herself within the chaos.
She had learned to make them her own.

Stories;
She could tell them the way they were or change them to suit you,
She could twist and turn them the way her heart pleased,
Or in ways to bring you to your knees.

Stories;
She heard them, she told them, she learned them.
She was building her own day by day, 

with bits and pieces picked up along the way.
But by now she was made up of so many others
What was one story's truth against another?

A look into her eyes would take you afar
To places unheard of and a life of scars,
To tears not shed and dreams in bed,
To words unspoken and hearts that were broken.
But where would her own story fit? she was out of space.
Her story was leaving her, slowly going, leaving no trace.

Now she's made up of everything and everyone
With so much to offer and yet, of her own, she had none.
She's holding on to her story by it's tail, waiting for a taker,

Someone to hold it dear, someone who will not fear,
Someone to make it their own. 

Someone, alas, to give it a home.