If I Were Made of Paper

Some people really are open books,
eager to show off each chapter.

They fearlessly send out secrets
like whole flocks of doves
searching for a green bough.

I do admire that confidence.

I am more of a locked diary,
bound in rough cloth
with pages stubbornly sticky.

My stories might be coaxed out
like hungry dogs
offered tidbits of trust
from quiet palms.

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