March 2nd, extended metaphor.

You are a complex, intricately written novel, filled with dog-eared pages and countless rips and tears. The words vomited across your sheets of parchment are simplistic and casual, playing on the feeling of reliability, although I can never be sure of your authenticity. Your insides are plastered with standard, emotionless script that is constantly begging me to read between the lines, while the whites of your pages hide anything of importance. The syntax and movement of your contents pace in time with the beating in my chest. Your firm, sharp, yet bendable spine is the exact opposite of the identity that admires you the most, and your hard cover protects an inadequate amount. If I would dare to pry past your attractive, distracting shield, your insides would pour outwards, resembling a volcanic eruption of punctuation drenched in black ink. The numbers positioned delicately at the bottom right corner of every page continuously tallies the amount of times you have said the inappropriate thing at the most unexpected of times. Your lack of articulation, and the uncreative vocabulary you have painted onto blank pages encircles eyes, giving the bookworm a false feeling of comfort and nostalgia. The anticipation of turning the page inserts unexplainable emotions and uncertainty into the bloodstream of your temporary guardian. While the frays that frame your main attraction force-feed me repeated information, something will always lure me into your carousel of reoccurring facts and fiction. The periods which you dot so carefully at the end of your narrative sentences resemble how easily you can stop your thoughts, and how easily you can block out the ones you do not want to let in. You perch yourself above others while loitering on the top of dusty bookshelves, and you force me to extend and contort just to graze your outer shell. Somehow you fit perfectly into the grooves of your impermanent owner’s palms, but it feels different when you edge into mine, no matter how tattered your leather, or how worn away your embossing is. Regardless of your condition and your imperfect, unreliable style of writing, you will always be my favorite novel.