the narcissist has good reason

pity reasoning only takes you so far.

the narcissist doesn't love himself as much as he is obsessed with himself. and obsession is destructive enough to be termed hate instead of love. we only measure love in consequences in this house.

but, on some days, we measure love in intention in this home. and even though it's always a little lesser than the sum of its parts, there's a sincere attempt the narcissist makes to love himself. to make himself happy. to make sure he's heard. to never abandon himself. and hell, even to understand himself.

of course there's a thin line between owning your desires and feeling entitled to its completion. it's also a little, sad, empty, and futile at the completion, lol, but he’d have to be bored enough to look more than skin-deep to ever look the void in the eyes but ah well, baby, light fills your pupils, pretty face, bright as the sun, reflecting off a lake, an eager mirror, i can keep up, don't worry, we're not really all that different. if you love me, you're a narcissist.

how does one pull you out of the truth? at best we can stumble in its mapless hell till we make our own way. and only orpheus would look back. that we are able to hold hands despite the scattered hopes we chase means we must be moving somewhere beautiful. i’m sure.

but when you only measure the world in intention, my love, you grow to resent the world really quick. intention counts for nothing. the completion of your desires is predicated on other magical factors like gender, the last name of your parents, and the weather forecast. so when someone calls you a narcissist, they're resenting you for getting away with it. some of us are punished for loving ourselves.

has a voice ever colonised your head? constantly second guessing you before you can even notice it’s not your own voice? it was a voice someone wore to win that spot in your head. the seduction is something like ‘i can show you what the world resents the most about you.’ and god, it's fucking tempting. we're that desperate to see ourselves.

if only we could learn the language the world hates us in, we’d be able to talk back. if only a religion can show me my place in the world, my aukaat. the existentialist reduces himself to a dot in the universe but still keeps himself at the centre of it. and this sweet sorry narcissist vows to love himself despite his solitude. to take himself out on a date.

these are all voices in all of us. or certain affects our own voice takes on in certain times. because the truth is, i’ve built parts of me brick by brick, the tender hands of those who have loved me smoothing the rough edges. who could i love more? my unending work of progress, torment of my dreams, my body, my fortress, my shell, my vessel.

and your eyes, her favourite lake to look into, drawing kajal under her eyes.