The book by its cover

I feel like a used book that you only picked up because you liked the cover. You ran your fingers along my spine then decided I was good enough to take home. But when you opened me up and realized how tattered my pages were you tried to return me at once.

You didn't even want to read chapter 1. I tried to explain away the stains in all the spots that weren't allowing you to read the full story. All I managed to do was push you further away.

I wondered if I had less pages with less rips would I be thin and attractive like the book you're reading now? Who am I kidding? I could never stand a chance against the feel and smell of a much newer book with pages so crisp one could slice a finger flipping through it carelessly.

I hope that if you do cut yourself you spare their pages from being stained by your blood. I hope you don't make little folds on the corners of the most painful parts.