the devil called, he wants his imposter back

I must preface this letter with total transparency: I am a giant narcissist. I leave no space for humility. So, when I say I doubt myself, or extensions of myself manifested in various forms of art, it is not because I believe I lack talent. I am hyper aware of where my strengths lay. It is not crippling self-doubt stemming from insecurity or some kind of backwards righteousness. It is imposter syndrome. I have more or less crafted my entire persona on literature and pretentiousness. I distinctly remember writing "I am nothing if not a poet" on the back of my hand with the dying breath of a red pen, a tangible affirmation with the remnants of bloodied ink on flesh rubbed raw. So the question remains: Am I a poet? Or am I nothing? I made a deal with the Devil and it was one or the other. Not both, not neither, nor a space in between. It's not his fault, you see. There are no unwritten axioms in the underworld. I didn't know what I was asking for, and it probably wouldn't have translated well into Latin. Flectere si nequeo supros, Acheronta movebo. If I cannot bend the will of Heaven, I shall move Hell. Sympathy for the Devil is just a form of Stockholm syndrome drenched in narcissism, and Stockholm syndrome is, perhaps, the sweet love-child of imposter syndrome and an old flame.