she’s very tolerant of her behavioral problems

This poem is not about you,
so relax.

It’s about some other exceptionally naked
nymphette who touched me in that nerve
area like a Japanese Samurai, driving me
to the point of exhaustion -

who drank to dull the pain of a messy breakup
and ended up paying her dues in one of those
"intensive medical rehabilitation facilities" -

who had a lot of anarchy in her and didn’t conform
to the expectations of what others held and always
went her own way -

who once told me I was a walking sore and never
entirely outgrew my pubescent fascination with gimmicks -

who was always exfoliating quiet hysteria from her pores
and quarreling with anyone who wasn’t moved by her misery -

whose mercurial flickers of emotion and lacerating
self-exposure often made me feel like I’d overdosed on jimson weed -

who took all her sexual advice from Bill Clinton and
only stayed in her last relationship because
because she was "fucked-up" and "addicted to it" -

who played on other people’s weaknesses and whose only
challenges were the ones she imposed on herself -

who had an understanding of suffering and was usually awake
until 3 a.m. devising her next romantic coup.

So relax,
this poem is not about you.

And even if it was, you’d never recognize yourself.

Because there are too many others out there just like you.

And I have only the gods to blame for that.

Reviews

[roarke]

Yep….sounds like love…I think you nailed this.