Open, You Say?

"I’m an open book," they often claim,

Pages fluttering, neat with name.

"I’m open to ideas," echoes proud,
But silence follows when thoughts get loud. What does it mean, to truly unfold?
To bare the corners no one’s told?

Not just the glossy, curated lines,

But footnotes, stains, the twist in spines.

Is openness just airy talk— A door half-cracked, a cautious walk?

Or is it standing, rain-soaked skin,

Letting the storm come crashing in?

To be open is to feel the sting, To listen when you disagree.

To drop the shield, to drop the script,

To let another soul truly see.

Not just opinions wrapped in bows,

But doubts and scars and silent no’s.

To open is not to overshare— But to hold space, and to truly care.

So ask again: are you an open sea?

Or just a mirror reflecting me?

To open is not to perform the part,

But to let truth echo in the heart.​