I am a book bound not in leather or linen, but in blackness—dense and deliberate. My cover bears the weight of scars, etched like ancient hieroglyphs, each one hiding a story I pray no one ever tries to translate. I am mystery incarnate, pages sealed shut with fear and fortitude.

It’s easier if they judge me by my cover. Let the world glance and turn away. Let them assume I am unreadable. Because if they were to pry, if they were to peer between the lines and unlock the spine, they would see what I spend every moment protecting: a heart—fragile, trembling, still learning how to beat without breaking.

And so I remain shelved, unread and untouched. Not because I lack depth, but because depth terrifies. Because the truth written within me isn’t ink—it’s feeling.

©️ Beatriz Esmer