If I Could Be Read

If I could open myself as if I were pages in a book, I would not ask to be understood through assumption. I would ask to be read. Each word would carry its own weight, telling the story of who I am without apology or defense.

If I could draw myself, there would be no need to explain the lines. They would not blur into someone else’s meaning. The shape would be honest. The colors exact. There would be no room for misunderstanding, because what was placed before the eyes would be what truly exists.

What would the story tell if there were no interpretation, only distinction?

A difference between what I see and what is imagined.

Between what I know and what is projected.

Between how I feel and how it is received.

Perhaps it would tell the truth quietly.

That I am not hidden—I am simply precise.

That my depth is not confusion, but clarity that asks for presence.

That to know me requires attention, not assumption.

And in that telling, the story would not ask to be rewritten.

It would ask only to be witnessed.