This poem is about your breakup. Yes, the messy one.
But you probably assumed it was anyway, didn’t you,
you’re so vain you probably thought that it’s all of our collective
fault for not mining deep enough to find the (admittedly)
really rather lovely amethyst deposits. You may not think
this poem is literally about your breakup per se, but you didn’t
need my help to find it pleasingly generic enough that you
could draw an endless web of projections, could say, “oh
hey, I’ve seen those greengreyblackblueishesque eyes
before, that drably portrayed anger, where the poet said
things like ‘dull ache’ and ‘knife wound’, well that was me too”
and it was you, but it didn’t have to be, don’t you get it,
fuck the semioticians who say I handcuffed my own thoughts
the second I stashed them in language, the postmodernists
that gleefully accept my (admittedly) really rather meager
donation to the collective unconscious and mold it into
abstract art and motivations, this poem is about your breakup,
but it’s mine, me, it belongs to me (right?), I’m really rather,
uh, cheesed off about this whole reading and writing thing,
this poem is about J. Alfred Prufrock’s breakup, yes, the messy
one, the one with that emotionally abusive (forget the gender identifier)
that you all know is yours, and anyway, enjoy the poem,
is the point. I hope it scrapes your scabs off, wherever they may be.