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 constantly 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 Taylor Swift 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.