The Self-Saboteur

I met this lady a while ago, and I must admit, I don’t like her much. She goes against my morals, and stands for everything I stand against. She does what she wants against any sound advice.

She is a rebel, in her own way, and she lives for the night and the devils that lurk within it. A bundle of pain and nerves, she thinks she’s not really living unless she’s living like everyone else. In the night. Chasing highs. Getting drunk.

She goes against her own safety, and as misery personified, she can’t be without company. She swears she’s not toxic, really, but she is exactly the toxic woman they warn you about. That “concert”? She knew exactly what would happen, and yet she found someone and dragged them along, hiding the true reason she went there.

This lady says she’s not about that conformity, that she runs things on her own terms. But if you really look, she’s conformed to the norms of everyone else, accepting temptations and poison with open arms. Things run her on their terms. I don’t think this is what she really wants

Always talking about “wilding out” when really she’s just spiraling down, down the rabbit hole again. She risks her safety for temporary relief in the company of strangers, drinks, and the smoke sticking to her. Nights, she lives for the night, but it just was not meant for her.

She’s a bundle of confusion and doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s big and bold in her mind, but in reality, she’s a little bitch.

I don’t like this woman because she is a mess. With the unhealthiest of coping mechanisms, she is a mess. A self-saboteur. She was me— my art, my poetry personified.

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