She was an open book, but they were too lazy to read and turn the pages. They think they know her because of what was heard on the whispers behind her back. Cowards, never to her face. To truly see her they would have to see themselves. They would have to walk the way of the empath. Truly love her enough to unravel the strands of life lines that made her who she is. Maybe, possibly, ask an uncomfortable question or few. Why should she trust them enough to be vulnerable when backbiting into her flesh seems to be the norm. Blood is not thicker than the mud she had to trudge through to survive. Those that got muddy with her see through all the lies. She was an open book.
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