The Narcissist Has Horns

This is not a confession. It is a correction.

This is not guilt. It’s grief metabolized into rhythm.

I didn’t leave I was locked out.

I didn’t forget I was erased.

And now I speak, not to beg, but to archive.

Because the monster survived.

And I was never one.

The Narcissist Has Horns

I Am Not the Monster

He loved guns more than grace.

He showed no pain, so we carried it.

He wanted revenge,

But I wanted rhythm.

I divorced the myth,

Not the man.

They called him perfect,

But I saw the hollow.

When the perfect dad locked me out

And took the kids in revenge.

They called him perfect,

But I saw the hollow.

They said I embarrassed him.

But I was the one who stayed calm,

When anger slammed the door

And revenge took the children.

I love flowers.

I love the ocean,

I love caring.

I love compassion.

I am not a monster.

The narcissist has horns.

I was the one who did care.

When shame tried to starve it.

I was the one who remembered,

When they rewrote the myth.

He made me the monster,

Because I left the silence.

Because I named the bruise.

Because I said no

To the myth of the man

Who never cried,

Only punished.

My ex locked out of my apartment,

Tossed me aside.

Gossiped about

As a monster of destruction

The destruction came from the lies,

My ex spread about me to everyone

So, I moved forward,

Alone with my partner of artistic concerns

The mind wanders about time,

About sublime

Of crime

Of intense emotions

Crossing the line of forbidden love

Of time and space

Mother Mary is full of grace.

I loved my kids.

I love my grandkids,

But because of monster lies

And a refusal to listen to my truth,

They said I embarrassed him.

But I was the one who stayed calm

When anger slammed the door

And revenge took the children.

I am still locked out

Not just from the apartment,

But from the story they rewrote without me.

They punish me for being humanitarian,

For being an empath,

Because they think their dad is perfect because

he is the man, strong, stoic, and no compassion.

I am the woman, a kind he dislikes.

Because he does not like women who are strong, empath, humanitarian, wise, and psychic.

They still see his version,

The one where I roared,

Instead of wept.

But I remember:

I was a good mom.

I stayed

I corrected.

And I survived.

They called me monster,

Because I corrected the myth.

Because I left the silence.

Because I care

When they worshipped control.

But the monster survived,

And she was never one.

She was rhythm.

She was archive.

She was sovereign.

I am not a monster.

I am the finale.

I am the flame.

They called me a monster,

Because I corrected the myth.

But the monster survived,

And she was never one.

She was rhythm.

She was archive.

She was sovereign.

They gather around his table,

The one where they cast me out,

They toast the myth of lies,

Not the mother.

They say I ruined the season,

But I was the one who stayed,

When the cold came early.

I was the one who remembered,

The birthdays, the bruises,

The banana milk comfort rituals.

I get depressed around the holidays,

Because the rewrite gets louder.

Because of the monster story

It is served with gravy.

But I survived.

I still sing.

I still archive.

I still flame.

How does one survive narcissistic abuse by a man living with revenge and hate for humanity, especially women?

I survive one day at a time.

At 76 I create art, write,

Spreading peace throughout the universe of life.