The Narcissist Ponders

29 03 2013

Every day, when somebody tells me I’m pretty I go through an array of emotions. First, obviously, I am flattered. But then I gauge how attractive the person telling me is. Usually, pretty people don’t tell other pretty people that they are also pretty because, well, they know that you know, or something like that. Maybe it’s just an unsaid thing. Anyway, but if the person giving the compliment is very unattractive, is it really a huge compliment? I feel like it devalues the observation. Now, if someone really hot says it, then I feel it holds more weight. So then I get upset wondering if this person is just going around town telling people they are pretty, willy nilly. That is so rude. Who is this stranger trying to make me feel so insecure? The gall of some people. Le sigh. I say thank you anyway. I’m not going to let them ruin my day.

The Narcissist gets a haircut

27 03 2013

Lucie tells me I have beautiful hair. I tell her I make sure I let everyone know it is her that cuts it. She insists it is not the cut but that I simply have beautiful hair. She’s right. The thickness, the length. I wish I didn’t have to get it cut but my split ends are atrocious. I do not like going to the salon though. I never look as good as I look at home in my own mirrors. She tells me I am not the only one. That some people ask to face the other direction to not see their reflections. I don’t think I look that terrible but it was comforting to know those mirrors and lighting are crappy and it’s not me. I was worried for a second.
She asks me how long I plan to grow it out. Mm, I want it really long. I would like to do this before I am too old to carry the look off, I say. Lucie says this is nonsense and she doesn’t like hearing people say such things. She says as long as it is healthy. I tell her I have a friend; she’s not really a friend, just a girl I admire. Admire in that way that you want to consume a person. To be me but in her shell of a perfect body of youth and features and clothes. The kind of clothes that fit right of the hanger without the wonder or try ons. Anyway, my friend, this girl, she has hair down to her waist. That is how long I’d like to grow it. Lucie supports this. I tell her I wouldn’t even have to straighten it. The weight would pull my natural curls down to nice waves. Lucie is excited and nods in agreement. She finishes up. I wrap my damp hair in a bun. Lucie doesn’t style my hair. It takes too long. It is too thick. Besides, I do a better job.
The next day I let my hair down. Everyone I see tells me how beautiful I look. I say thank you sheepishly and to anyone that knows Lucie, I make sure to tell them she is the one that cuts it. Even one of the managers I don’t get along with said I am very pretty but terrible inside. His English isn’t the greatest so I am not really sure what he was trying to say.

Almost Perfect

26 06 2011

My mind is where smut dwells. In slumber, love is sweet, soft kisses, caresses, embraces. Not to be disturbed.
Awake, it is all consuming. In heat, throbbing and aching. These moods are met with heavy sighs of annoyance. Similar to the ones I let out when he gives in and it is too short.
A ruined day stirs hurt egos. I don’t know romantic love without touch. Words are never enough. How can he live without me if he can live without having me?
This man of mine. Even in sobriety I want to hit. A fire burning. Now a sigh of remembrance of being satisfied.

Early Morning

6 06 2011

Staring at his hands as he drives me to work I grin with excitement remembering what he can do with them.

A Saturday

30 04 2011

I know he’s stoned when he thinks the wine opener is amazing, talks about the smell of the cork, then imitates the Geico lizard.

In the darkness

19 04 2011

my hands graze his hair
raking locks between my fingers
 lips pressed to his back doting each freckle with it’s own kiss
Sometimes in sleep he bellows 
at times there are whimpers
I grab a limb and squeeze
and sway his corps with mine
and there is calm
when light begins to break he reaches out
his light arms embracing my brown skin
wrapped tightly
saying what cannot be spoken in the pure of day

Notes from my iphone

4 04 2011

I look for the book I brought pretending I have the intention of reading knowing I was half asleep before coming to lie down. Instead, I pour a glass of wine from the bottle I hid. Gollumly, I stare at the half pain pill I took from my mother’s bottle. Precious indeed. Only the wine won’t rid my mouth of the after taste.
Fighting sleep. Avoiding the pages, scrolling through Facebook.
I am giving him enough time to wake up on the couch and realize I never got my goodnight. And as I type…

“Goodnight, beautiful.”

Now I can sleep.

7 03 2011

His love is a wound. A tear in flesh. A portal in space.
Leading to warmth. A regeneration of life.
But healing shut the cement hardens and I’m left frantically
picking and ripping, letting the love that remains out to flourish.

29 12 2010

He is there.
Introducing her.
I check my phone and text,”I love you.”
Suddenly the chair next to me feels emptier than before.

27 12 2010

He asks if we have stuff to make nachos. I know what this means.

He sinks his head farther into his hoody, “I’ll help” he says softly

“That’s okay.” I send him to the Quick Stop to pick up more beer or wine, or both. I ask him to put a record on. He picks the Beatles. A quiet static then “Here comes the sun…”
He comes from behind as I wash a pan, kissing me fanatically up and down the side of my neck and cheek.

“I love you baby”, he says, resting his chin on my shoulder.

The words won’t reciprocate. A tight grin to stifle the tears. He knows I am powerless.