Narcissists Are Inherently Drawn to Empaths
They find each other in quiet rooms
where kindness sits unguarded—
where a listening heart
mistakes intensity for depth.
The narcissist enters polished—
mirror-eyed and honey-tongued,
a sculptor of first impressions,
casting gold light on her own shadow.
She feeds on admiration
like a flame feeds on oxygen,
needing applause to drown
the hollow echo within.
Control is her compass.
Lies are silk threads
She weaves into nets—
subtle, deliberate, tightening.
She studies his weakness
as a cartographer studies terrain,
mapping tenderness
for conquest.
She is incapable of love—
She consumes.
She does not apologize—
She rearranges his truths
until it kneels.
And then—
the empath.
The empath stands open
as a window in spring,
breathing in the weather of others.
His voice is steady water,
well-spoken not for dominance
but for understanding.
He hears the tremor beneath bravado,
feels the bruise beneath the boast.
Where others see arrogance,
he senses injury;
where others see cruelty,
he imagines pain.
His gift is connection—
to sit in another’s storm
without raising his own.
To offer language
to feelings unnamed.
To believe, again and again,
in hidden goodness.
But light, unguarded,
attracts the moth
as surely as the moon moves tides.
She admires his compassion
because it reflects him kindly.
She admires his confidence
because it appears like strength.
She takes;
he gives.
She demands;
he explains.
She distorts;
he clarifies.
The dance begins.
The narcissist thrives
on borrowed warmth—
drinking from his well
while insisting it is dry.
Gaslight flickers in the corners,
small at first—
a doubt here,
a memory questioned there—
until his certainty bends
like a reed in wind.
Still he tries—
because to him,
love can be repaired,
and patience is virtue.
But the truth remains:
empathy without boundaries
becomes a feast for hunger
that never ends.
The empath must learn
that compassion
is not surrender.
That understanding
does not require endurance
of cruelty.
That love must stand upright,
not on it's knees.
And when he does—
when his kindness grows a spine—
the narcissist,
finding no mirror
left to polish,
turns away
in search of another reflection.
For the narcissist is drawn to his flame,
yes—
shadow to light—
but only one can endure
the breaking of illusion.
And I am not
the one who feeds on it.
Because with moral certainly,
it is wrong.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
