Peel open your broken eyes. 

I pity the puppeteer playing a lonesome game

pulling, tugging, delving into shame. The narcissist 

has a dictionary, armed and ready to use. 

They can pull you into a world of wonder, 

splendour pouring from their fingers

working you like the puppet that you are. 

And when you tire of the game 

when your arms hurt from the constant 

worship and your words run dry they will cry. 

Cry. Cry. Cry.

Cry words of loss and abandonment to fill 

your soul with the murky stench of guilt.

They will cry. 

And the puppeteer in gleeful splendour 

shall once again control the strings 

whilst you believe it’s love they sing…

But alas my pitisome broken dear, 

The narcicists controls your fear

They cannot lose, they must keep you near. 
Karen Hayward ©2017

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