Narcissistic Depot

You have always said you can read me
open the pages of my insecurities and playfully
crack the binding of the confidence
which doesn’t appear until the 3rd edition
“COMING SOON.”
I would think you’d grow tired of a story you already know
whose words cannot promise to surprise
or mask the tear stained sanity
that the now deformed pages have acquired
from various puddles.
I’ve been dropped.
and I’ve walked willingly into
the muddied situations that
I suppose can now only
merit the title of
literary suicide.
I can’t write romantics.
Love poems must be beautiful
and horrifying
and make everyone who is alone feel inadequate.
I would, of course, savor such power
(you, of course, know this)
but I fear the ignorance of the optimist-
who would mistake my cynicism
for profundity-
and somehow find inspiration in my attempt to belittle.
And I cannot have that-
cannot allow superficial joy
from such a sinister cause.
I am selfless.
Can you help me find a new self?