you're just another kid, sweetheart. another
angry waste of space, lashing out
at yourself, at the world, anyone, anyone.
and you like to play with fire, baby, don't
you? find someone you know will
hurt you and take the chance on him,
almost hoping he'll do it for you -
stop your breath. like you're too afraid to do to yourself.
but you always run away from him -
it's never enough. you always need
space. and he never really hurts you enough, does he.
so you give him up and you swear off pain
for a few days. and instead you
twist around syllables and words,
pretending to be a real poet. someone who
is tragic and beautiful and almost-not-quite-dying.
but face it, honey, you're no sylvia plath,
and you were never alive anyway.
not my best.