Tag Archives: prose

Poetry from the Torture of Loving a Narcissist

These are from my,
Poetry Collections
The Worst of It

The worst of it was his disbelief in my love
In how I truly felt about him
The conflagration of him; the intensity of my desire to be his.
How he affected me, changed who I was, and what I believe
I adored him and wanted to give him everything

He laughed at my passion and my offerings
His indifference to my flailing ruined what was left of a fragile soul
He misinterpreted, misconstrued, and misunderstood everything I was
It felt as if he did so purposely
He ignored my only talent and wouldn’t read my words

I am still a shattered mess, only aching to be understood
Something about his rejection rendered me invisible
Even to myself.
Now, he’s attempted to delete our tombstone inscription
As if a few scratches could expunge my grief at the loss

As if I could ever un-feel what I felt
As if I could reverse the affects of him on my heart
The worst of it is he banished me instantly from his
Moving along as if I were roadkill to be forgotten
Whew, that was a close one, glad he survived
as I drag my own carcass away from the crash site.

The worst of it is how my love for him, awakened me
Changed me, made me want to be more than I’ve ever been
A better me, because of him.
He didn’t feel any of that impact, not even a jostle of recognition
He irreparably wounded me to a core I didn’t know I possessed,
and the worst of it was he didn’t care a lick.

The worst of it is the weight of what I now carry
The baggage of un-spent adoration, love, lust and submission.
How can I ever give this to another?
Another will never be him.
But of course, he isn’t really him either.

Irretrievable, irrevocable, irreversible
Whatever toxin he infused, is a fatal affliction
I’ve come to decide I will not recover
I will continue as a shell of empty grief and sorrow
But who I once was, is gone, lost, destroyed

I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m still standing
The placebos I feed the world
I know the truth, but I’m the only one who cares
He doesn’t, never did, lied his way through my devotion
He didn’t care if it was a love note, or a suicide note,
it was simply something to feed on.

I thought the sex was love, and for me, it was more like worship,
But I think for him, not so much.
He loved his prowess and stamina.
He loved his power.
He adored himself as I writhed under his weight.

It’s strange how I still love him.
The façade he presented in the beginning.
The conglomeration of parts I’d always dreamt of.
He is a master of the craft, a fisher of emotions, an infantile monster of extraction and extortion.
He baited the net perfectly, and then laughed at his prey’s declaration of love.
An Oscar worthy performance as a vampire of emotions.

If my love was a lie, I’d be over him by now.
I’d have moved past this brokenness and mourning.
For me, it was so much more than lust, and chemicals.
My soul fell, and is still screaming through the abyss
My heart is obliterated and now I’m a nothing.

He interrupted my aura, and I was instantly changed. It was an irretrievable moment and I am still suffering through the sorrow. It weeps through my skin and strangles me with longing for a man who doesn’t exist. It’s like a straight jacket of locks and chains; a noose of emotional torture; this ache of grief that renders me fetal as I hold myself together.
I thought a year would at least provide a scar I could live with, but instead it rips free and bleeds on a regular basis. He laughed at my love, thought me a fraud and a liar. Of course, his disordered mind hadn’t a clue of love or it’s power.
It was naïve of me to think the firestorm I experienced, would translate to his awakening. My own metamorphoses was irrevocably enacted the moment I saw him, but for him to want me with the same passion, was a much too delusional fantasy on my part.
He set the trap well, offering me bait of my ideal. I saw his cage of writhing demons and yet still, still, I loved him with a ferociousness I will never understand.
Even still, a year past and I am swept away by the interruption of a continuous thought of him.
He tried to scratch away the inscription on our tombstone, but no matter, it is still him who haunts the halls of my heart and renders me useless to this world.


I’m working on a new book of poetry, prose and introspective articles/memoir.

I don’t know a release date yet, but I have my cover art.
Here are some samples of the poetry:

___________________________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________________________


New Blog post & more poetry

Here is a link to a new blog post:

Ramblings of an old, mad woman…
plus a few more quotes, prose and poetry.

She says she’s a Horseygirl…

There is always dust on her jeans
Her hair is like a torch of satin flames; honey and fire, sunlight and copper; spilling from a ball cap.
She wears sunglasses, even in the dead of winter. 
She’s unbelievably strong and agile. 
She’s empathic at a level others never comprehend
She doesn’t think she’s graceful, but she is.
She dances when nobody is watching.
She towers over most women, and looks most men directly in their eyes.
She is a carnivore, and will admit to eating things with faces, but then smiles deviously.
She can back up a thirty-foot bumper-pull horse trailer into the tightest spot—in one try.
She can load 3 horses, by herself, just by pointing.
She can back up a 2000-pound animal with a look.
She knows what knot, to know.
She’s open, and ugly-honest about everything.
The opinions of others, are none of her concern.
She is precise and clear with her communication.
She never makes assumptions. 
The word, ‘wrong’, does not exist in her vocabulary. 
She is calm and balanced, yet decisive and direct. 
You always know where you stand, and how she feels.
She loves adventures and getting lost in the woods. 
She believes balance is key to everything.
Her faith game is off the charts.
She’s incredibly passionate, sexual, alive and open. 
She claims the best drug on the planet is a gallop down the beach,
Or sex with, him 
I love to watch her move amongst the beasts she guides. 
When she’s atop, no other can compare with her erotic beauty. 
She is a centaur of elegant, fluid exquisiteness. 
A part of the dance in a way others envy.
Someone broke her trust, and she no longer believes love can conquer all. 
She never talks about it, and refuses to linger too long in the past, or play victim to anyone, but he broke her heart and she never truly recovered. 
I see it in her eyes when she thinks she’s hiding behind that slaying smile.
She says, she’s a horsey girl, as if that explained everything.