In halls where whispers dance like leaves

Rumors spill like a can of paint

And your eyes paint me better than a brush 

Before my lips passed my name

Yet to even cross paths

You slid me the look

This walkways been covered in dirt

Did the wind whisper those white lies

Or was my name woven into the conversation

Purposefully placed marking my story

Did my smile not shine bright enough 

Or did it reflect off your phone screen

Preoccupied with boneless bodies of lies

Averting it from your attention 

Like a book off a desk

My words fall into air

Heard but not felt

Understood but ignored

Like a magazines writing

Cut out and scrapbooked by readers

It's never our own first thoughts

But the story shaped by the ones closest to the plot