narcissist

you’re in there

somewhere

and i’m sick

of the mirrors you put in front

of my face

so you can argue me into some epiphany

you’re having about yourself

lock my words in a vice

that you claim is the boundary

of reason and fariness

but from my locked hands

and from my stiff neck

it feels like a beartrap carved specifically

for someone who might be tempted

to steal

 

if nothing i say is true

consoling, forgiving, or real

and you choose to cast my noose on the threads

of moments when your self focus

had me unraveling

i realize i’ll either be hanged

or i’ll run

and that neither answer will lead me to you

 

already i know i’ll miss

thinking you might someday want me

there’s only so many cold touches and shut eyes and hidden corners

and disguises

in dark car rides

that i care to romanticize

before admitting this has just been

one more verse

in the piece you’re sketching for your future resolve-

that the “she” of my details is

just a pronoun

in a sentence that wasn’t even about me.

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