I came home from school weary and drained.

I think of taking a nap, but then I see

your smooth, abalone binding, shiny satin ribbon, flimsy elastic band; 

the glint of gold scripting across your front cover, calling to me. 

Yes, you definitely are noteworthy.

I took joy in inscribing my name on your very first page,

in my best handwriting.

You are like a rocket blasting into space, taking my worries with it;

you are as trustworthy as my calculator to give me the right answers.

Every day, your pale, silky pages invite me to scrawl between the lines, 

waving hello as I collapse into my chair.

You are the telescope to my galaxy of distant thoughts.

You are Jupiter, a vast planet encompassing my Stygian feelings; 

you are a star chart, a guide to my incomprehensible mind.

I want to lock you in glass, admire you from afar; 

let visitors fawn over your perfection.

Yet for all that, if it came to it,

I would rather put a flame to you

and watch you burn

and cry over the cinders

than let someone read you.