Listen to you! All you do is microwave
dinner after dinner! You smuggle 
your own misfortune toward yourself!
Where were you? And what were 
you doing? What is doing? Your time
is a giant lizard that hasn't taken 
a breathe, not even a shallow one,
in 36 weeks. I am berating the ceiling
just thinking of waste that is slithering
out of your eye balls every time you blink!
You magnificent idiot. You colossal mistake.
I am writing you this poem, now, hoping
that it will be printed somewhere
online and out of curiosity you will read 
it because it is posted somewhere 
and you will think, maybe this is about 
me? No, it couldn't be. It has been too
long! But the truth is. This is about you.
It shouldn't be. But I just looked at 
your Facebook and got sad for you.
You who are so ill-suited for
the feeling world. You. I could catalog
your squandered potential in a book,
a long book. I would not like to read 
such a book. I am that torso. I am the
torso and I am screaming at you
to change your fucking life. But people don't
change. You won't read this. And if you did
you will just think sadly and smugly 
about how I'm not over you. That is not
the point. It is not about the ability to turn
emotions on and off. I listened
to the entire discography of Belle & Sebastian 
today because of a one-night stand, a Facebook
post, and an episode of GIRLS. You will never
change. And you, who I don't know, maybe you 
will change a little. But not enough. I'm 
sorry I've wasted all of your time.