The grand illusion of a narcissist
It was always my fault,
every metaphorical glass shattered
and the holes in the walls.
They weren’t real, our friends could not see them.
No one inspected my body for the remnants of your short fuse and addiction to making me irrelevant.
I was a whole continent of a person when I met you.
A little too many lakes, spilling over myself out of every one I housed.
You knocked me off my high horse.
That would’ve been enough.
But the story continued.
The horses in my farm went to slaughter
and eventually I didn’t own any land.
The original deceit was thinking I’d ever be small enough for the place where your love fits.
Maybe it grows big enough for other people,
but I was land, not water.
I couldn’t make you grow.
So I tried to make you smaller.
The less of you that there was,
made every thing less hostile.
You thought you were growing
when I let you go,
you’ll always be small.
And I’m a continent again,
but this time, everyone is welcome.