Let me talk to you plainly, like the skies about to split open and the heavens waiting on you to notice. Because someone needs to feel this burn down in their bones, not just read it like another scroll through the noise. No, this is deeper; this is holy ground. And if your hands are trembling, if your chest is tight, that’s not fear—it’s your soul remembering itself.
The narcissist? Let’s strip the glitter and call it what it is: a ghost in gold paint, shiny on the outside, hollow on the inside. All that sparkle, all that charm—a costume. They walk into rooms like they own the light, but baby, they borrowed every bulb. And behind that spotlight smile, a storm—a soul running from its own echo, terrified of the silence that follows after the applause dies down.
See, they don’t live; they perform. They don’t feel; they manipulate. Love was never the language. You weren’t a partner; you were a mirror, a trophy, a flame they could bask in until it got too hot to hold. And when you stopped dancing to the tune they wrote, the whole set collapsed. Curtain closed, theater empty, show over.
But here’s the twist: they don’t run on truth; they run on illusion, like a flame runs on oxygen. And you, with your sweet soul, were the breath keeping that blaze alive. The moment you stopped responding, the fire sputtered. Now they’re pacing, trapped in the prison of their own performance, haunted by your absence—louder than your presence ever was.
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