The Narcissist

I was mad, upset and pissed as I shouted to her ‘You narcissus’. to paint a picture of what she really was I picked up a brush, a pint, a canvas and went to with these power strokes. I slashed paints right and left splattering blotches with negative emotions bursting out towards her pouring through skin onto the pure white innocent canvas. I was making a point!

But as I was painting her; with each and every brush stroke, I became weaker and weaker and it became ugly and uglier and no matter how hard I tried to see the beauty that linger somewhere deep inside of her. It wasn’t being depicted as I wanted it to. My mind fought with the narcissistic portrait of her I set out to paint. When I looked at it, I saw a reflection of a man who was looked more and more like me.

With every stroke it actually became more and more looking like a self portrait of me. The bitterness and anger I felt surrounding me. And my sadness, the frown on his face. What had she turned me into?

What have I done? What is this telling me? Is this the man she left behind? She loved herself a little too much, and now, look what it has turned me into. A shell of an ugly, hateful man, wishing this was a canvas of someone else.