Conquest

There’s a subtle narcissism to romantic love. Practice in selfishness, as I’ve heard someone say.

She loves you, and you slowly transform her into yourself. If you’re good. Otherwise you exploit her naïve praises, her very nature of worship, to reflect your egoistic fantasies. You don’t have the originality for transformation. And you don’t know yourself well enough to model.

You lover, you imperialist. You conqueror of mannerisms, you stealer of laughter. That praise was meant for world, for God, for creation, and you are guiltlessly reflecting it upon yourself. Tan, boy. Steal her glow.

You obliterate her happiness when it doesn’t hail your glory. Your schemes, disgusting, you schemer, so obvious, so exploitive, and yet you still deceive yourself. You are righteous, justified in your indignation. Yes, you have the right to be jealous. Know your rights and then live by them. Lean on, leaner.