You’re Not a Martyr, You’ve Just Got the Complex

Fair Narcissa,

all your beauty could not be contained

in the shallow pools you peered into.

You saw your darkness beneath the surface,

called it a new name in your folly.

You washed yourself clean with filth,

dubbed yourself baptized and saved,

without ever living the grace you preached.

Hypocrite Narcissa,

the fruits of this world could never be enough

for you.

You plucked from giving trees on endless loop,

blaming nature once you'd taken too much

instead of your greedy hands.

Cowardly Narcissa,

praying endlessly for ascension,

begging to escape a world you could not control.

You sought peace in the chaos you caused,

blamed it when you couldn't sleep,

blind to your own misdeeds.

Foolish Narcissa,

using faith as a torch.

Olympic ambrosia was never yours to taste,

yet you're still aimlessly searching.

No light graces the steps you take,

but you're too shrouded in darkness to see it.