Secrets Are Secrets for a Reason

"An open book, they say she is,
because she wears her heart
on her sleeves.

But what book, do tell,
gives you blank pages
when you ask invasive questions
And gives you ten pages
when you look for the index
or publication?
None again
when you try to browse the contents
but chapters dedicated to acknowledgements

Sometimes you see a glimpse here and there
of passages that makes you feel you've hit gold
but are never enough for sense to bare.
Like being able to grasp in your hands
the blazing of a fire most beautiful
But before you can feel its burn,
it fades into ashes and gets lost in the air.

An open book for all to read
but the ink is special, you see.
It is made from all her cries
that you sometimes chose not to hear
And on her sleeves, you say she wears her heart
but look,
the bruises on her thighs
say otherwise."