Unread

I am a closed book,

waiting to be opened—

not by just anyone,

but by hands that turn pages with care,

by eyes that read between the lines,

by hearts that don’t rush to the ending

just to say they’ve been there.

There’s so much ink inside me,

pressed tight against silence.

I want to be known—

I do—

but not picked apart like a scavenged poem.

Not skimmed for meaning.

Not reduced to a single quote.

I carry stories

stitched from every scar,

hope scribbled in the corners

like soft reminders I’m still here.

But this world,

so often,

prefers the loud,

the palatable,

the easily explained.

And me?

I am none of those things.

I am complex and contradicting,

soft but sharp,

warm but wary,

proud of my journey—

even when it’s taken me through the storm

barefoot and unseen.

There’s beauty in my becoming,

but it gets buried beneath the noise.

So I fold into myself,

not out of shame,

but preservation.

Because vulnerability is a language

not everyone deserves the translation to.

Still—

I ache to be opened.

To be read in full.

To be held with reverence,

not just curiosity.

Because the world can be so cold—

brushing past quiet magic

in search of something louder.

But some flames burn low

on purpose.

And if you ever take the time to read me—

truly read me—

you’ll see:

I was never closed.

Just waiting

for someone who listens with their soul.