your good news is not good news to a narcissist
they smile,
but their eyes flinch—
like dogs who smell meat they can’t have.
you tell them the thing you did—
the job,
the book,
the quiet miracle you pulled
out of the grease and ash of your own life—
and they start
tightening the screws on their grin.
they don’t clap.
they calculate.
because your sunrise
casts a shadow
right across their throne.
they’ll find a way to turn it—
make your luck a crime,
your joy a brag,
your voice too loud.
they’ve got to stay on top
of a ladder no one else is climbing.
so you stop talking,
sip your beer,
and let them drown
in the silence
of your contentment.
good news doesn’t need an audience—
only air,
a heart still beating,
and a door
that closes quietly behind you.
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