I believe some stories were never meant to be hidden—they’re just waiting to be discovered.
Some secrets are desperately wishing to be revealed.
Some books are pleading to be read.
Maybe they’re waiting for you…
Unopened
Is it the title?
It was not my choosing—
I’m not my title though,
you can call me
“my book”.
Is it the cover?
It may lack artistry,
something more attractive—
I understand,
it’s plain.
I just wish to know,
why won’t you read me?
Is it the paper?
It is not expensive—
no gold edges gleaming—
but the writing,
it breathes.
Is it the story?
It’s not always happy,
not always sad either—
it’s more like life:
it moves.
I can’t comprehend,
why won’t you read me?
Alas, I’m just a book,
unopened on your shelf—
ignored, gathering dust.
A secret—not by choice—
faded ink on pages
just aching to be turned.
Is it my language?
Puedo hablar otro—
solo decime cuál,
traduciré
todo.1
Will I ever learn
why won’t you read me?
Perhaps it’s everything
telling me to accept
I’m not meant to be read.
— Cae Rivas —
The irony of being an open book and still being unread.
Have you ever felt like an unopened book? Like you were offering everything—your depth, your complexity, even your language—and still being left on the shelf?
If you liked this poem and want to read one about change and the sameness of it, I have you covered:
Thank you for reading, for your time, and for being you. 😊
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Translation:
I can speak another—
just tell me which,
I'll translate
everything.
There’s a quiet weight in what you’re sharing here the kind of things we tuck away and never quite open. Reading this made me think about all the parts of myself I’ve left untouched, and how messy and necessary it is to face them. Beautifully done my friend ✨
There’s a quiet magic in this poem that snagged my breath. I am that unopened book on the shelf, waiting for someone brave enough to turn the page. I feel the ache of wanting to be seen, read, understood. Your words don’t need gilded edges or fancy covers, they already breathe, they already call to me. I closed my eyes and felt each line like an invitation to explore a hidden corner of my own story. Thank you for reminding me that even the plain covers can hold galaxies.