“My heart is not an open book,
Don’t try to pry its cover wide.
It’s pages are worn, the words unclear,
Stories of sorrow inside.
Pain seeps through the fragile spine,
Each chapter lined with silent ache.
Cracks in the binding, lines rewritten,
A history I'd rather not remake.
So let my heart remain unread,
A mystery in faded skin.
Some tales are safer left unspoken,
Some wounds too deep to let you in.”
