I’m an open book, but just because you’ve read my pages doesn’t mean I trust you. You can read all my passages, learn every word by heart. You’ll never understand me.

I don’t hide things, yet I have secrets. Each word is written in ink, blood, ash and tears. Stained with years of torment, broken hearts and the unbridled beauty that only comes with experiencing life.

My pages are worn, not with age, yet with an indescribable frustration built of pushing through that which have broken others. My cover is well crafted, a mysterious smile luring you in but never letting you get too close. Some of my pages were ripped out, torn to pieces and burned. A desperate attempt to remove them from my story. Lovingly and with many tears cried were they painstakingly recreated and taped back in. You can still see the ash where they were destroyed.

I grew and learned and fought many wars. I survived and learned to live. If you brush my spine just right you might hear me sigh with content. Handle me carefully, but don’t concern yourself with being gentle. I’m fragile but strong enough to handle your hands on me. It’s your own words that you need to watch, for they get written into mine.

Will you read until the last page?

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