spend your days off
bottling masochism
into remedies;
sell them to your isolated self
as constructive criticism ––

criticism is a double-edged sword
you’ve been taught to hold by the middle
so it hurts only the way power should,
must, would. 

shave it with pencil sharpener –– wound way too tightly –– might but won’t
                                                                                                                            snap ––

clean it the way you clean browser history
protect it the way it should have protected
                                                            (itself from)
                                                                               you

there isn’t a double-edged pen so
what are you to do to stay civilised, to be understood,
to rival the sword with? 

what are you going to colour your blood with
when you run out of crayons and white-out?

what are you going to fill your time with
if not praying to genies who’ve outgrown their blues,
their lamps, their white knights? 

you, your self-invoked exile,
speaks to the last straw of their megalomania
but did you know, deep down they too are
only manically after your masochism?