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I am Narissa. I am a human being pretending 

To be a little fairy. I'm sad. Happy. Broken. 

I'm empty. I am not a liar, nor a hypocrite;

I preach what I practice. I am a lone vixen; 

I tarry for none. All the things I love are all the 

Things I lose. I'm afraid of losing myself

To those unworthy of the meanest of my 

Essence. This I do too, often. I fear not

The dark, but the transient radiance in the

Depths of the night. It makes me paranoid and

Hugely bothered. I am the best of smiles;

The worst of weepers. I am the end of pain.

Alabaster containing loads solafey. My emotions 

Are as trimmed as my nails. My hair, 

Long and raven, hangs below my curve. This is

A valid description of me, yet will always

Lack my spice and spontaneity; my charm. 

I fear Arachnidae, and all things un-mammal.

My heart is pure gold. Liars and Cheats 

Target me. I'm battered and broken, but these

Manipulators do not have the mercy to leave

Me alone. There is smoke in my head, 

Smoke in my eyes, smoke in my heart.

The void they fill was earlier lots love.

Unconditional, sempiternal love. I tire 

Of forgiving people. It is not my job 

To do so, yet I do it. I know not why. I am the

Victim of debauchery and chicanery, the final 

Consumer of Pain. My aim is to soar high

Like a gull; my dream to fly above the clouds. My wings

Are molting off like stale snakeskin; I am close 

To drowning. But I choose to angle myselves

To the winds, my chest growing a cold numb

From the harsh torrents of sea breeze. Like 

Papyrus, I let soak all the black that spurts

Over me, no blotting sheet to remove the stains. 

My love gifts me stigmata, the cruelest 

And deepest at my heart. My sorrow is not

Caused by my pain, but by my loss. All the memories 

I hold dear will haunt me, hurt me till 

I succumb to my wounds. Empathy is a disbalance,

Wherein we give all we have to get nothing in

Return: Injustice served on wide platters. 

I sink my head into my pillow, my tears getting

Sucked into the soft feather filling as if they were

Precious, precious drops of liquid diamond. 

My resolve wavers when I see a wounded soul.

Lo! Why Do I have to be such a masochist?

The medication for this; my problem's 

Either death or apathy. I choose the latter,

Wanting to choose myself over the rest.

Narissa: A Poetry Collection ∣✔Where stories live. Discover now