If you looked for my name on the front of a book,

I don’t think you’d bat an eye,

For my story would be just words on a page,

All meaningless words floating by,

 

It would tell of simplicities based on first glance,

By the clothes I choose to wear,

By the way that I walk or the height that I stand,

By a look that says I don’t care,

 

But if you looked even closer and tilted your head,

Reading between the lines,

You might be surprised at the words twisting around,

Changing the “me” they define,

 

You would read about the mistakes I have made,

Of fallen tears and scars,

The times in life I felt most unsure,

And the times of broken hearts,

 

The pages would carry the weight of my past,

My burdens as the words,

Each line would unravel into new chapters,

Of all my unspoken hurts,

 

But soon you’d see color and a changing font,

As the words spell more than my name,

Pictures of sunsets and laughter and smiles,

Would begin to enter the frame,

 

You would read of the quotes I pin on my walls,

Of the pets for which I care,

Of the people I love and the stories I’ve written,

And secrets I vowed not to share,

 

Because it was that moment, that chapter I saw,

My story had yet to be read,

So I ripped out the pages and took out a pen,

Rewriting all that was said,

 

Despite all my troubles, heartbreaks, and tears,

My story was one of a kind,

I would keep the torn chapters as unpublished drafts,

Because that’s not how I was defined,

 

If you looked for my name on the front of a book,

I don’t think you’d bat an eye,

For my story would be just words on a page,

Unless you read between the lines.