The Narcissist’s Mirror
With each moment, she adopts a new persona, glancing at her reflection as if appraising a new outfit, a pristine coat still bearing its tags.
She unfolds herself briefly, as the time and distance between us cast long shadows over our days and our bond.
In this fresh guise, she discards her ill-timed words and heated accusations, all betraying her true self. To her, this is a gleaming, enviable new start.
She revels in the freedom to be anyone she wishes, even if it's fleeting—hence the untouched tags.
Her angry words from mere months ago have hardly faded. I scramble to remember them, to engrave them in my mind before they're dismissed as mere figments of my imagination.
My memory of her warps as she continuously evolves, admiring each new version of herself in the mirror.
There's a certain allure, albeit a terrifying one, in her ability to reinvent herself. She discards her past, starting anew, until those around her start doubting their own memories.
I find solace in chronicling my reality, capturing moments shaped by her narratives.
When her façade cracks and rage seeps out, I note it down. Her piercing words and their ill-timed delivery, though painful, guided me to clarity. It was always an illusion.
My memories weren't flawed; she was just too swift with her transformations for me to grasp anything concrete.
Words inked on paper remain unchangeable, regardless of how she attempts to charm me with her practiced smiles.
There's a hollowness in her eyes, a void she can't quite conceal, no matter how many times she rehearses her expressions on me.