This is a poem for me, to me.

You have a horrible singing voice
but God knows,
singing while you wash away
dishes somehow makes
cleaning your heart
less cumbersome.

I've been worried about you;
you seem to be craving
a psychopathic thrill,
the kind where you feel
everything but remorse;
what a change of course,
you didn't let the monsters change you,
did you?

Intensity sprawls over
your dainty skin,
either full equilibrium
or capsizing until you sink,
either confessing to possessing
a soul gone obsidian
or your confessions completely shrink.

Girls like you
are the reason why you don't see
many small kids out late at night;
you're either fully pacific
or completely acidic,
either lulling stability and resolution
or chaos enveloped by your convulsions.

You're a ******* storm...
Now make sure the world knows.