Narcissistic Psychopathy
I have seen the polished mask—
how it fits without a seam,
how it gleams in borrowed light
and calls itself a face.
There is no tremor in the voice,
no fracture in the gaze—
only a stillness
where a human storm should live.
He speaks of greatness as of air,
something owed, not earned;
the world, a tilted mirror
forever meant to hold him upright.
And yet—
beneath the architecture of charm,
beneath the fluent, measured grace,
there is no audience but hunger.
No echo answers when he calls
into the hollow of himself.
Others are instruments—
strings to be tightened,
hands to be broken,
notes to be spent and discarded
when silence is more convenient.
Remorse is a language he learned
only to counterfeit.
He knows its grammar,
not its weight.
I have watched him describe ruin
as though recounting weather—
unmoved, precise,
untouched by consequence.
And I, who am trained to listen,
find only absence speaking:
a careful, curated void
dressed in human cadence.
There is no villain here
in the story that he tells—
only a hero without limits,
and a world that fails him daily.
But in the quiet after he leaves,
in the space where truth settles slowly,
I write what he cannot perceive:
A life without others
is not power—
it is an empire
built entirely
of reflective glass.
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