The Fragmented Parts of Me: A Poem by Narcis

 

Intimacy is a cold device,

An instrument of torture.

An element of terror fills the veins,

Contemplating the hellish existence, the omnipotent presence,

Of a narcissist’s wounds.

Far more than a narcissist.

These diabolic tendrils of evil.

Satanic.

Winding their touch through all of creation.

All of creation.

As a malignant brain cancer,

These wounds create an essence of panic.

Created by the narcissist.

Created only by much more.

An element of the Satanic is in his foundation.

Not chosen.

Only chosen for him.

The protector,

The caregiver,

The mother, the father.

What happens to the child, when all of these are fallen?

Of a fate worse than that of the Nephilim?

Once hearing, mommy is the God to the child.

How can it be anything otherwise?

My existence,

Safety,

Health, future, my humanity,

The possibility of the destiny of my soul,

Is in your wounded care.

If only we knew and heard,

Really heard,

Where it says about that a child will follow the way it is raised.

If only we knew what our actions do to our children.

It’s the reason spontaneity terrifies me.

Building up walls,

Iron walls.

Shutting the door even on goodness,

To avoid the possibility of ever suffering.

What is goodness?

To me, it is nothing more than insanity,

A disguised nicety.

How could it be?

That the instrument of torture used to stifle me,

Into this foundation of darkness,

Could be such a profound source of joy to others?

Surely they are deluded.

Surely they are masochists who are into pain.

How could it be that this instrument of torture

Could also be the source of my liberty?

Traces of my pain.

Traces of my pain,

I pretend I don’t even possess capacity for this complacency.

I pretend I don’t even possess the capacity for this need.

I feign it is not even a part of me

So that I am not wounded more when it does not come.

My identity,

Fragmented into many parts of me.

There is no identity.

Only the many parts of me.

Fragmented to preserve my sanity.

How can I cope?

Well, I can write poetry.

I have vowed I will never experience passion.

That word of evil, criminal intention.

Because of how it was used against me.

My attention shifts.

Momentarily.

I only desire to protect myself from being hurt.

A matter of cosmic irony,

That you should be upset with me,

For breaking hearts, for causing grief,

When the entire reason for this avoidance,

The entire reason for these fragmented parts of me,

Is the heartbreak within myself, the grief inside of the fragmented parts of me.

My attention shifts.

An element of bitterness rises from the ashes.

Who is to blame?

I long for others to see the wounds within.

How can I tell them how this has affected me?

Filthy rags of another’s disease ridden privacy,

Violating me in the most intimate of abuses.

Having made me,

In an element of cosmic irony,

The perpetual target,

The perpetual tragedy of every bully.

It has fragmented me.

Turned the pain inside of me into sizeable portions,

The parts of me can cope with.

My attention shifts.

Realizing, I have actually participated in my own abuses,

I have been tricked and groomed into believing I enjoy it.

Still confusing.

How terribly tragic that my body, mind should

Cooperate with those who abuse me?

You may convince parts of my body.

You may even convince the fragmented parts of my identity

That I am like you –

Like those satanic narcissists who hurt me.

It’s not too late.

It’s not too late to make even

This foundation of darkness into the greatest source of light.

Repeatedly asking the question,

Is a part of me,

Asking the question,

‘How can I love if I have never been loved?

All of a sudden,

The many, many parts of me flood over,

They flood like rushing water through a labyrinth of caves.

The caves of my soul,

Of my identity fill over.

Filling every part of me with the love and dignity of one greater than me,

Than every part of me.

I cannot discern who it could be.

But that in the process of loving every part of me,

I have learned intimacy.

He tells me that ‘I am one greater than you,

Who became like you and even less,

So that you could become greater than you.

I rise up like a conquering lion,

Fierce and proud and rejoicing in the glory that awaits me.

It’s not too late.

Even with this foundation of misery.

Realizing that passion and that intimacy that terrifies me,

I have already experienced and that what remains,

What I still need,

God will provide me.

My sexuality, like my identity and vulnerability,

I surrender to Him.

How can I express myself?

‘I like to write poetry,’ says a part of me.

And much like the greater part of my life,

The poetry of this part of me,

Begins in tragedy yet ends in victory.

Inside of me, there are many fragmented parts of me.

27 that I have found in entirety.

What a joy to know that also,

Inside of me, lives a 28^th identity.

That is God Himself, who gives me liberty,

My fragmented personality,

Unity.

And in the end, He gives me victory.

He has chosen me.

Every fragmented part of me.