She is an unread poem, closed up tight, like a book gathering dust on some forgotten shelf. So I became a poet, to try and crack her open, to spill out her words, the ones she keeps hidden from the rest of the world. But she's a tough one, her lines tangled, her verses hard to see. She doesn't make it easy, doesn't give herself away, so I scribble and scratch, trying to make sense of it all. Maybe she's not meant to be read, not by someone like me. But damn, if I'm not gonna try, write her out in every way I know, until maybe, just maybe, she lets me in, lets me see the story behind those unread words.