Nihilism and Narcissism are too close for comfort. Someone should tell their mom.

Preach love and practice
nihilism
so strong that it ferments into
narcissism,
a selfish regard that ages
and goes over
from a wine of acquired taste
to the vinegar of a sociopath.

“Nothing works,
nothing mattes.”
Take it further:
“Nothing's real.”
Take the dogma,
twist it
into a shape to fit your liking.
Freeze your smirk into its
bitter
shine.

Drift through life
touching everything, feeling
nothing,
curdling the blood in the veins of your lovers
and piercing the hearts
of the fools
who dream you a hero,
a Ghandi,
a god.

They look at you with hopeful eyes
that brim with a recipe that's
four parts awe,
three parts admiration,
two parts imitation, and
one part each of
fear and distaste
—for a soul so distant,
so vapid—
as they bleed to death from wounds
they cannot see,
wounds
that are half of your knife and
half self inflicted.
After all,
they chose to love you,
didn't they,
in the end?

Your smile never changes.
Nothing works and
nothing matters.
In the end,
nothing is real.

Not even you.