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 radar 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?
.
— m. smith (2025)
(76 lines, 577 words)
originally published by m. smith at www.msmith.live