The Narcissist Is Dead

The Narcissist Is Dead

You wore concern like perfume,

strong enough to fool the weak.

But I was never soft,

you just mistook my silence for sleep.

You touched my wounds

like you’d earned the right,

called it love,

while grinding your teeth.

I know your kind,

the ones who speak in mirrors,

reflecting only what they think you want,

until the mask slips,

and the fangs click.

You drained me,

slow,

civilized,

with fake warmth and borrowed lines.

Then blamed me

for bleeding.

But let me be clear.

You didn’t break me.

You woke me,

and I remember everything.

Your kindness had a scent,

cheap and overused.

Your loyalty lasted as long

as I served you.

Your name, if spoken now,

tastes like rust and spit.

I don’t want closure.

I want distance.

I want your face to mean nothing,

and your stories to rot where they started.

You look like everyone I’ve buried,

not in the ground,

but in truth, in my life,

where cowards belong.

You mimed empathy

like a puppet in a preacher’s suit,

but your hands were always in your own pockets,

and your mouth

full of borrowed pity and bile.

I watched you study my softness

like a map,

thinking you’d found a shortcut to control.

But you read me wrong,

and now the storm’s in your name.

You wanted my ruin dressed as gratitude,

my silence as proof I was kind.

See I don’t bleed quiet anymore.

I spit,

and your name’s at the centre of every drop.

You were a snake,

weak,

hissing with borrowed venom,

thinking fear could bind me,

while you slithered between masks.

But I don’t flinch anymore. No.

Now I’m the poison apple,

ripe and waiting,

not to tempt,

to end you

on your own bite.