Tenderness

The Narcissist looks outside to know that she exists
If you don’t validate me, who am I?
I’m waiting for a sign
Who am I without your response?
A gaping hole opens up
It might engulf me
in nothingness
No-thing-ness

The terror of non-existence…
Looking into that space
I see the obliteration of belonging
Some scrawny malnourished runt;
a girl – some version of me,
tries to make a home in this place of obliteration
An emaciated waif
She casts no shadow
lives in a cardboard box
on the street.
No one meets her eyes
I’m almost wedded to this story,
but when I enter it deeply
I see at her feet
a green shoot coming from a crack in the paving.
It has vigour and life
The potential to overcome.
The stones around it
will crumble to dust.
The waif is feral, street-wise
With nothing left to fear
She holds in her hand a mirror
And the surface that reflects her image
is not glass
but tenderness.
The melting of all defences
as its presence becomes known
Taking root
in me.