I’m not a book to be read and devoured. Page turner. Chaptered. Preface. Prologue.
If I was I’d be paper back. You can see the use easily. Wear and tear.
Wouldn’t that be easier for you? That way what you interpret me to be I would then be. Making me amount to some desirous interlude. Something you escape from the reality into. I’m fictional.
If a book could somehow glare at the reader that would be happening momentarily.
Dear reader, fuck you and your insurmountable stereotypes. It is fun to imagine the world as simple as you make it. Hearts and flowers. Successes and triumphs.
Your gross naivety drives me to insanity. Sickness. Food poisoning.
What you produce in your thought bubbles is romantic and ridiculous. Temporary and incorrect. You misinterpret the information set in front of you.
It would be so nice to live in your world. A world where what you want things to mean, they mean. Truly, “the world is what you make of it.” Hearts and flowers.
Rose-colored glasses my ass; you live in a comatose state. I want to smoke what you’re smoking, oh reader. Please. For it doesn’t matter what the words say. Pages blank, you read what you want.
Because apparently, you’re imagination is greater.