Not Plath's Metaphors

I've drawn a picture….metaphorically speaking, 

Of the man who claimed my poetry 

was ‘neither good nor bad,’ 

and wrought 

with ‘typical metaphors.’
According to him,

I managed to say nothing

that 'hadn’t already been said.’

So, here are a few words about him--

That may not have already been said. 

He’s like...

A cigarette: I fixate on pressing my lips onto him, and make a worthless vow to stop once I do

A pillow: I can’t stand other people touching him

One old sock: I keep him around, even after realizing that the defects from years
of wear-and-tear may deter his primary function of comfort and warmth...
hoping that his softer and lesser-used half may show up and create a whole 

Hands: I can't get him soft enough. No matter how hard I try

A telephone: Provides an outlet for exchanging communication,
but incapable of conveying actual feeling

A telephone call: I was excited by the noises he was making and the promise that
it delivered when I first heard it, but disappointed when I heard what it had to say

A tear: He seemed cathartic, but just made my eyes red and puffy

A bruise: A destructive and painful event in my past that lingers on my person
That’s why he remains in my life

The Italian language: I don’t understand him, but I’m convinced that
my previous experiences and former training will assist me to do so (they don’t)

The province of Xu Xi: He’s distant and intangible

Hair gel: He seems like a good idea, but always ends up making me look stupid

Plath did this better

Doesn’t matter anyway.

According to him, 

I wouldn’t be able to pull it off.