Hey you, Mr. Bad Influence,
Who the **** do you think you are?

Strutting in here with your stupid, too-tight sweater, smug grin and reeking of mary jane's latest perfume.
I, for one, am not impressed by your ***** hipster/bad boy/deep and artistic attitude.

You're like one really bad habit the world forgot to break.
You're a good liar, and an articulate debater,
the kind of guy that makes you want to tear out your hair
because their very existence is so incredibly perplexing.

In the worst ways possible.

I DON'T UNDERSTAND YOU.

You are junk food.
You are addicted to dying and make it annoyingly attractive.

You're all, "I don't care what anybody thinks of me."
You're all, "Challenge accepted."
You're all, "Look at me, I'm talented and smart and totally make it seem like I waste it on unconventional activities and tempt other people to do the same despite the fact that they might not have the skills necessary to pull that **** off."

And I know that everybody else probably thinks you are some, great guy but I,
refuse to buy into that
cool and detached act.

Because you, are not some great guy, Mr. Bad Influence.

You peer pressured me into falling for your smile.
You tricked me into getting caught, red handed, hoping you felt the same.
You dare me, every day, to trust you a little more and I am only so strong.

I don't do dependancies.
But I've thought about taking up smoking just so I can taste you on the exhale,
I mean, just so I'll  have something to miss that isn't you,
I mean, you're not even trying and I'm already hooked

You need a ******* warning label.

You are, frustrating and dangerous and toxic enough to stunt my growth;
I will never have another day I won't find you in my poems.
I wanna miss you right.

You are so wrong.

You are not some. Great. Guy.

Boy. You are everything I never wanted.
And yet I find myself here, missing you
Before I've even left.