Cursed devil horns holds the rope to hang the noose that’s around my neck, the noose I save for very particular points in time. I know I’m supposed to be this shy and loving woman who cares for not for herself, ever, but I’m brought to my knees in shame every time I see my reflection.

The woman stareing back at me is a narcissist void of emotion, sociopathic really, a devil in disguise. A woman only of carnal knowledge and deepest desires to fulfill only herself. A hedonist at heart.

See it’s really easy to fake feelings for other people but deep down do I care, really really care for those around me? No. Not even my closest friends and family.

It’s because I don’t feel grief. I feel it for myself as in, “Oh woes is me,” yet I cannot and do not extend it to others beyond what I am able to fake.

“Oh you had a house fire? I’m glad you’re alive, don’t worry about your possessions, your life is the most precious thing.” But do I do not believe that. Now I am glad this person is alive, and I do believe their person is the most important possession. But I care not for the things they lost, I have no empathy or sympathy for any of their hardships and I do not have any care to hear about it again ad nauseum.

Maybe I’m just American. How do I, who has always had food on the table, truly feel for someone who does not? Many don’t eat in this country, but for how long? Do they feel the pain suffered around the world by actual famine or starvation or are they faking it?

Worse are they trying to relive it? Grasping at straws to help those in need when they have no idea what those in need actually need? Or possibly trying to glorify poverty by participating in the back to the land movement?

What is did was slap my ancestors in the face by seeking out my heritage, glorifying poverty in a back to the earth movement. Little did I know I was also militarizing how food was produced and consumed by millions simply by participation.

I am an evil individual and if I wanted to honor my ancestors there would have been a million other ways to do it besides it being through food production. I could have learned to cook our food and made a life for myself as a chef, I could have learned my language and been a translator, I could have taken the lessons and help my parents given me and gone into finance or something equally important and expensive. But no I had to find myself first. And it would have been ok, maybe I would have gotten out of it all if I wasn’t dragging this narcissistic noose around my neck. If I wasn’t actually the woman who had to be right, who had to get it all by being defiant and defensive, who had realized that her ancestors were right all along, “Get out of poverty!” They screamed.

And I didn’t, because through all this I’ve come to realize that the horns on my head and noose around my neck is still you.

The narcissist who actually stole my ability to feel for more than myself. You still hang around me. More than a scar though in my past, you’re a necklace of death I cannot unchain from because sometimes other people really do drag you to ruins.