Brand new betrayal

It seems like infidelity, this.
My wayworn, plump journal will be offended, no doubt. I write almost everything in that. It’s seen me through heartbreaks, tantrums and tummy aches. It has sat loyally in my backpack, following me to the places I’ve lived in on and off for the past three years. Quietly enduring the shakey handwriting on trains, the fevicoled pictures that get more than one page stuck from behind, the wavy edged paper from walking in the rain.
But I vow to remain true to my collage-covered, rant-filled journal.
This blog is my presentable self.
I intend on confining my paranoia, obsessive compulsiveness and quirks to the confidante whose spine is wearing away from too much travel.
This way, I can make the pages last longer.