Narcissist

We’ve reached a point in our relationship where your arrows no longer find their mark.

Bouncing off my shield of scars to land in piles at my feet.

You’re an expert marksman, after all these years. Don’t blame yourself. It isn’t your aim,

it’s me.

I’ve learned how to deflect.

No longer the willing victim of your painful episodes. Impervious to your verbal vomit and emotional purges.

You’ve squeezed every drop of emotion from my bones.

My passive responses and stoney face, anger you.

I retreat deeper into my cocoon, your masterpiece.

Your gift to me.

I’ve nothing left to give.

Ice Queen. You call me. I like that better than bitch. The tears no longer roll down my porcelain cheeks as you batter my soul with your pain, tossing thick handfuls of anger, sadness and loss to stick like putty on my evanescent innocence. Burning acid trails down my body as they melt their way into me.

Years of scars fused to form a rough shell of protection.

Perhaps a geologist will find me and study my layers. Dig through the pain and misery you spackled in massive clumps to cover my once beautiful soul. Find the withered lump within, starved of the elements necessary to thrive. A cold reminder of our true mortality shruken to fit perfectly in the palm of a hand.

It was never really about me, always you and your need to control. I wasn’t the one you wanted to bury, hide, reshape. You recognized yourself reflected in my brilliance. Drawn to the luminescent promise of something profound.

I allowed you close, to basked in the warmth of my light, you recoiled at the image mirrored back

and attacked.