my match beloved

I loved a sociopath once,

but, I’m no psychologist so…

Who am I to throw those words around?

I only loved it, lived with it, saw its core in the deep of the night.

To this day I still hold its stories, keep its secrets—

but who am I to say one way or another…?

The scariest part is that it was exciting,

perhaps the most exciting thing I’ve ever loved—

a high I fear I’ll chase forever.

It was mostly kind and often eye-opening,

and when it was scary it felt familiar,

although its origin was buried and burrowed in the core of my soul.

I revert to thinking it meant more to me,

but the aftermath it’s instigated tells me otherwise.

It thinks of me like a fox who saw its first jackalope—

Prey or predator? Friend or facsimile?

How self aware is it?

It’s wicked smart, charming, and manipulative.

But does it know what it does?

I do.

I know what I do.

I knew what I was doing.

Into its games I dove,

whether or not it knew we were playing;

I’d met a match finally worthy.

But who wins and who calls it?

That one, we never quite figured out.

I thought we were on the same page—

That it was just a game.

That finding another player so intimately familiar

meant finally playing with someone at your level.

It was blind though.

If I were a psychologist, I’d have picked up on that sooner.

But into the stalls and off to the races I went.

Straight into it, I ran…

into its arms, brain, stories, and secrets.

To me it was a person, to itself— an anomaly.

Like an orb floating through space,

a spec of dust in the middle of a room;

a blip on the reader chalked up to a bit of directionless dirt.

A broken leaf in the middle of the woods,

a ship built with negligence and confusion,

sent off to sail an endless, treacherous terrain alone.

It was electrifying,

Because I too had always been a malformed vessel

alone with the tides and the passing days.

And although we both relished in this special type of solitude,

it took me a long time to see

we’d probably never see it the same way.

Its emptiness was my vitality.

Its progress was my repenting.

Its mind knew not of mine.

My playmate was playing alone;

Somewhere along the way,

karma’d drifted that soulmate away.

For I believe in other lives we loved each other

longer, clearer, stronger…

Maybe so strong that we killed each other.

And it could’ve happened again—

I’ve seen its eyes, and it’s seen mine,

like sticks of dynamite on a football field.

I’ve slayed it before and I would again.

It hides around me, lost, lurking.

I’ll be chasing that high while watching over my shoulder.

I’m starting to realize what separates me from it—

its willing mortal dissociation is my triumphant embrace of mortality.

While it craves ascension, I jump from the peak.

Because I can play our games while slithering between sheets together,

use my tongue for cutting, dissecting, loving, and trying.

I thought we both could.

Intertwine our minds like spiked ivy,

penetrating, stabbing, integrating, and learning.

Sink our claws deeper into the Plutonian parts,

digging, exploding, bonding, and healing.

I can, and I did, and it was exhilarating.

Does that make me the better human,

or the better sociopath?