I don’t know if this was what they meant by celebrating every little victory in life, but this poem is in celebration of my first relationship where I was open about my depression, didn’t hold back and shared all the crazy thoughts.

I am an open Book, with pages stuck together, a language cursed, that I cannot speak, that they cannot read.

I am an open book, with pages covered in stains, wine and blanks. if only I remembered, I am a book unfinished.

I wish I could read it myself, the end of every page, or how it ever did start

I am open book, with indents on my shoulders from fingertips bending corners, leaving marks, creating a fold and marking a point of return.

I am pages of unfinished folds, I have pages that cannot be read, I have words I cannot pronounce. With a lick of one’s finger, they try to unfold it all. This book will not come undone and so they move on.

I am an open book, stuck together with pages that unfolds wildly as the wind blows, pages so soft they haven’t been felt, words unspoken just whispers. My unstuck pages hide in trees that dance.

I am an open book, so place your mark in me, tell me how you want to read me, stop when you can’t take it anymore.

I can’t explain my words, these pages are a mystery to me, as much as they are to you. And I know I cannot read you, we remain pages unread, stuck together.

I am an open book.