The Narcissist

 

The NarcissistIt is a tunnel vision, with a mirror fixed
at the occluded end. You claim the victim’s role,
yet every wounded posture only serves to fix
your gaze upon yourself, the solitary soul
obsessed with its own image. Are you numb,
or do you simply not give credence to the claim
of any other heart? So long accustomed
to that bright, unyielding glass, you’ve gone blind to blame. Why do you never summon anyone to mind?
Is it because the self usurps all space and air,
or are your private demons of a kind
that blind you to the hell you make for those who care?
If no one else exists within your nation
of one, how very lonely that must be.
I think you are profoundly lonely in that station. Your lies drag consequences in their wake;
you see the tears but call them mere coincidence.
You register the weeping, yet mistake
causality, and call the obvious nonsense.
You cannot treat this love as if it were a storm
to be outwaited in some shuttered room
until the pressure lifts. One day, the lightning’s form
will burn away the lie and light the wreck and ruin. Why do you never summon anyone to mind?
Is it because the self usurps all space and air,
or are your private demons of a kind
that blind you to the hell you make for those who care?
If no one else exists within your nation
of one, how very lonely that must be.
I think you are profoundly lonely in that station. And I am being almost kind in this accounting.
I could go harder—sharper, truer—if I chose.