Narc

You walk into the room like it belongs to you— and somehow, by the end of the night, so do I. You speak in mirrors, every sentence curved back toward your own reflection, and I stand there, clapping for a story I’m barely in. I used to be loud— did you know that? I had colors that didn’t ask permission, dreams that didn’t shrink to fit inside someone else’s shadow. Now I measure my words by how they’ll land on you, trim my laughter so it doesn’t outshine yours, fold myself smaller and smaller until I fit in the space you leave behind. You don’t raise your voice— you don’t have to. You drain me in quieter ways, like a slow leak I can’t quite find. You take and take— attention, warmth, breath— until loving you feels like trying to fill a well with my own tears And still, you look at me like I should be grateful to be empty. But here’s the thing— I can feel it now, the faint pulse of something you couldn’t take. A flicker. A stubborn, buried light. And one day, I swear, I’ll follow it out of you.