The Wronged Man (poem)

You play with love like it’s fire,
as if it doesn’t burn you from the inside out.
But it does burn.
And you cry in the ashes
as if you didn’t light every match.

You take, break, misshape hearts like clay,
then beg us all to stay,
while we stay warm
and you turn cold,
searching for something new to hold.
Not someone.
Some thing.
Until boredom bites again.

You love like an English summer: fleeting.
Is it love at all?
Can you love anything
that isn’t you?

You’re not clean,
just lies, adultery, and petulance
masked in bleach.
You’re the filth-covered road
you keep walking down
into your own self-pity.

And still, you write of sorrow
with the same hands that struck the match,
playing arsonist and victim,
flirting behind backs,
writing wrongs into melodies
and calling it art.
A martyr in your own mind,
cheating in plain sight.

And I pity him,
for what he gave,
believed,
saw in you.
For what they all see.
What I saw, too.
Until I saw the truth.
Lived it.
Burned by it.
By you.

Now you live alone
in a house you built,
nothing but shadows for company.
Screaming at the walls,
wandering every room,
filling them with stories
only you believe.

So go on. Blame the world.
Sing until your lungs give out
for all that you are not:
The wronged.
The abandoned.
The broken.
Avoid every mirror.
They reflect the truth.
And a narcissist like you
was never built for that.