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AM Beck 3d
Am I your favorite
Punching bag
Taking hit after hit
Because you're sad

Am I your favorite
Little toy
Use me til I'm broken
Then throw me away

Am I your favorite
Soldier
Following every order
But never ranking up

Am I your favorite
Instrument
Playing only the songs
You can sing along to

Am I your favorite
Story
Rewriting the lines
So you're never the bad guy
Sonora 4d
she is a narcissist
you can find her at 9 o’clock on tuesday nights,
taking photos in front of a full length mirror,
trying to find a spark of beauty in a life that is more bland
than bread without butter, people without mouths, mouths without words
(words outside mouths)

words fall out of her mouth before she can stop them
they are not always hers
she stole them from the magazine she reads on sundays, the one that keeps her distracted
because monday is back to the real world
(school means enemies)


she doesn’t make enemies, she chooses them
she speaks to a boy once and has a bad impression
and for the next three years he somehow manages to make her angry
she hates how he looks, how he talks, how he walks
how he beats her in an election of popularity
he doesn’t know he’s her enemy, but she doesn’t care
(if sharing is caring, she will not even breathe the same air as him)


air isn’t hard to come by, everyone she doesn’t like has a head full of it
everyone she likes also has a head full of it
the difference is that half think she’s crazy, and the other half are crazy
she has pride in herself
(that’s what everyone else thinks)


she has daytime insomnia, except
instead of not falling asleep, she can’t stay awake
in a world of people who think shallow water is safer and
shallow minds are better
it drives her crazy to think of romantic love
(she wants it but i guess she can’t have it)


her life is divided by the color of lockers
the yellow lockers of her first middle school, the good years, when she was admired by everyone
she was smart and charismatic
and she was happy in only a way that a
bee that has never lost it’s stinger can be
(innocent children always change)


the red lockers of a second middle school, full of memories she hopes to forget
the building where she first learned hatred and hopelessness and how you can never take happiness for granted because there will always be someone to take it away
(she was angry at her parents for their uninspired decision to move)


the blue lockers of high school, the idea of which kept her going all through the red year where she almost let go of the thin, little, fraying string of a balloon, keeping her barely out of the reach of the sharp nails of the devil’s paradise
she ran into blue as she ran away from red’s angry arms, crying for help, crying to be saved,
and she was.
she saved herself.


in blue she found herself away from the miserable creatures red produced, and she could never put a pin quite on how it changed
but she fell in love with feeling clean, and she started to look pretty
she pulled herself together and woke up each day grateful for the blue lockers that lined the halls of her high school
(she worked hard to be narcissistic)


she believed she found euphoria
she trusts in herself now, but
only because she trusted everyone at the beginning
(and no one in the middle)


her life is divided by the color of lockers
when she sees photos of the blue of her new school,
she is reminded of the yellow where she was so happy and
the red where the walls of the school mirrored what she saw everytime she closed her eyes
her mind is a board game, divided
by emotional reasoning
(i read an article that said that’s dangerous)
Latoya Jones Jul 16
I sit and wonder what life would be like if I was a narcissist?
Would my flesh feed on manipulation or feel guilty when I walk over ppl
Feel satisfaction when I lure them in with my compliments and trap them in my web of lies
I be joker and they be my fool
Get them attached
Have em confused,
torn to pieces
Make sure they stay depressed.
Rub my hands like bird man keeping their head a mess
Overthinking
I’m lowkey smiling
Their sorrows continue to be a gift I cannot name, A twisted comfort in this cruel game to feed my ego
Thrilled to pick their brains like a picky eater at dinner pick them apart until they become what I like
Walk around collecting hearts like eggs on easter
Just so I can bruise em up and eventually break em
Then watch em put themselves back together again
Laugh at their pain
Hold them like a puppet in my hands
Connected souls and I control the strings
As I sing these sweet nothings in their ears telling em all the things just for fun
As they dance my voice becomes a sounding alarm
Hypnotizing,
on the count of 3
I snap and they run
Grin as they obey everything that I want done
Would I give a **** that I’m ruining the lives of these beautiful ppl?
Or would I laugh at the selfish gain
continue to **** the life until nothin is left but a corpse and their left walking this earth empty with nothing left to give
How would I live?

Like **** I hope.
Nosy Jul 6
I see her
The way she stands
The way she smiles
It angers me.

Why won’t she listen
Why won’t she quit
She’s mine and should-
Always listen,

It makes her think I’m cruel
I’m cold and incapable of love
But I gave her all and everything I had
I install her with fear, for the world-
And all that’s around her
I truly love her, but wished she’d disappear.

She wants to make her own decisions
Fine go be your own grown up
And find out the world can’t take you
You’re too much until you’re too little
She’s the thread, and I keep pulling
Why does she want to leave…

They’ll eat you alive
I’m just trying to help
Even out of spite,
So when she breaks-
At least I warned her
She’ll never make it alone.
Growing up with a narcissistic parent. Believing this would be their point of view.
If only our brains were lobotomized,
So we could spend our lives
cuddling all night,
without the weight of worry.
No more missed calls from mom,
just sleep and your arms
kissing you,
laying down into an eternal calm.

I remember the panic in our eyes,
How we looked to the window
When the police lights
danced furiously on the walls
A car’s reflection pulling us
to the great fear of getting caught.
The shade bled red,
and the misery wore blue.

You said,
"I just gotta be sure."
Well, I do too.
But who doesn’t want to know for certain
before they think they found the one?
Are we still meant to be
if we don’t feel that certainty
deep down?

I guess it was confusion
that made me cry.
The echo after our last kiss—
a quiet ache,
like knowing
it may never happen again.
The way your warmth
became a memory
before it even left the room.

You said,
"I just gotta be sure."
Well, I do too.
But maybe it was already fading
in the silence that grew.
Maybe love was the question
neither of us ever knew.

If only you loved me as deeply as i did
so we could sleep through the night again,
Before i saw your greed
without ever worrying.
But it was your heart
That started to lobotimize
That wanted just to be loved, not love
I could sense all of it
Deep and well in your absence
Who have you been touching in your silence?

That time you started to reply late.
That time I gave up sending the first message.
That time you never reached out.
That time I realized how many lies you'd been telling.
That time I blocked you from everywhere back to back
That time I wondered if you tried to text back.
That time I went on a new date.
That time I dumped our pictures and your gifts with a chest wrenching ache.
That time i saw under your mask, your real face.
That time our memories started to fade.
That time I started to forget your face...
The Calm May 25
Peace is something to die for
To dive for
Deep into uncomfortable waters where confrontations swim quickly with sharp teeth of yesteryears hurts, scars and disappointments
To wrestle against the currents of emotional immaturity and pride in the deep and dark abyss of normalcy.

Hiding hurt in plain sight, veiled, covered up like dirt under the carpet so that no one can see the harm that has been done but never reconciled.
The narcissist within you thinks you know the reason behind everything you see or feel, you’ve already figured out a story where you’re justified and as for me, you say I should let it go.
Life is too short to relive old pain.

Your peace is a false god.
Your peace has won no battles , your peace has no scars , your peace is nothing but a curtain that hides the ugliness of human condition that you are not emotionally mature enough to process.
Your peace is the absence of conflict.
My peace is its resolve.
To stitch the wound
To mend the heart
To soothe the soul
Again, to start
Anew, with you to know you deeply,
To love you deeply.
If life is so short, then why are we waiting
To start again
A poem, a prayer, a therapy session? Maybe all three. Praying for all of you that hope to love someone deeply and work through hurt and pain with them
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