Every day your words repeated:
you said that I'm the only one
whom I love, that I'm conceited,
that I had poisoned all I'd done.
And so my thoughts were always on
myself and on the sketch I'd drawn--
if I'd acted narcissistic,
if they think I'm egoistic--
and I've never loved somebody,
for if our hearts grew close at all,
they'd see me, weak, conflicted, small;
and with only casual study,
they'd learn how I am just replete
with selfishness and vain conceit.
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