My little brother cuts himself into existence.
With razor tongue I try to shave his pain,
he wouldn’t listen.
His ears are woolen screams, the wrath of heartbeats
breaking the surface.
His own Red Art.
When he cups his bleeding hands
the sea of our childhood
wells in my eyes
wells in his veins
like common salt.
(By Sam Vaknin, author of Malignant Self Love-Narcissism Revisited)