Empty book

 She is like an empty book. She is filled with fresh, blank pages that are yet to be written in. Will she be covered in snatches of poetry, or streaks of colours in every shade? Because she is empty, people are hesitant to fill her pages with their stories. Write. She is like a capped pen, waiting to be opened. Like freshly spilled ink on the floor, like the steady 'clack' of a typewriter. "You're like an old paintbrush, worn but comfortable," she's told. Flowing steadily, like a quill, her ink drips onto the white sheet if paper, it's pages yellowing at the corners. She is like an empty book—but she will fill herself with stories before her pages yellow and corrode.