You only gave me chapters to read, and even then, you blacked out the sentences you didn’t want me to see.
You offered fragments and snippets of the story you wanted me to know, while you read me like an open book.
How is that fair to me?
Even the chapters I tried to hide, you forced open, leaving no part of me untouched, no secret concealed.
Yet, for all your scrutiny, you missed the deeper truths and emotions buried between the lines. You read me cover to cover, but the essence remained elusive, lost in the silent spaces between the words where the real story quietly lived.
When you were done, you discarded the book, leaving me with torn pages and a broken spine, scattered fragments of a story you never truly understood.
But that’s alright. Though my tale wasn’t your preferred read, it’s a story still worth telling.
I’ll gather the pieces and turn a new page, awaiting the day when someone will cherish the whole narrative that you failed to unveil.
YOU ARE READING
Echoes of the Lost
PoetryIn a world that often feels overwhelming and uncertain, poetry has been my refuge, my way of making sense of the chaos around me. This collection is born from a place of introspection and longing, a testament to the raw emotions and profound questio...
