I'm sure you could read passages from me
as easy as you read passages from a book.
I'm a picture book to you
and you are a novel to me.

How is it you are so versed in my thoughts
and yet you cannot recite your own?
Why can't you read me a page
from your inner monologue?

I would sing you my soul
to hear a line from your pages.
I would write you an essay
if it might unlock those cages.

Do you long to tell me just how you feel?
Is it festering inside, just waiting to unwind?
Are you afraid to admit, are you afraid you will reel?
I'm telling you now, all I will be is kind.

If not, that is fine.
You can stay a closed book.
Just make sure you close mine,
and put back what you took.