Me?

A poem about how I felt when my sister called me a closed book. Please review it?!

'You are a closed book.'
I am?
I did not know.
I thought my cover was open,
pages turning,
words continuously being writ.
This may be but not under
the light of people's glances
as I had imagined,
but in secret locations
hidden from view.

'You are a closed book.'
Maybe I am.
This I realise now.
I keep my pages of tormenting fear,
mislaid hopes
and quiet passions
veiled by a cover so blithe.
A cunning diversion many writers use.
Me?
Oblivious to my natural ability.

'You are a closed book.'
Yes I am.
I admit that it's true.
But I'm not a diary padlocked securely.
It just takes effort to lift my cover
and time to read the words
on these pages,
reluctantly mine.
My uninhibited writing
has a qualm about judgement.
Take heed of this when reaching for me.
Be gentle, please.