To my greatest critic,
Both a friend and foe in life,
The one I am never rid of,
Whose words only fester in my mind.

You are verbally cruel and physically nonexistent.
Your words are like daggers thrown at my unfeeling sentiments,
Your thoughts like salt in a wound.
Yet I live and breathe with your advice.

For you have no voice of your own,
You must borrow mine
In hopes that your many insults
May find some life.

"What soulless work!"
You exclaimed once,
With such bitterness
One could mistake
Such expression for loathing.

Your thoughts could slit throats
Without a drop of blood spilling,
A curated silence due to their sharp nature.
Yet I would not be this way without your guidance.

Another time you pondered,
"What self-centered thoughts you have..."
Your intentions not malicious,
But only when I question the Self.

Brashly and bluntly you state,
The most personal of comments,
Locked in the dredges of the mind
Forever to remain although never voiced for another.

How could you get away with this?
The reader may wonder,
But the answer
Is much closer than what one believes.

To you, my critic,
You have choice but to 
Cling to me like a parasite
For you are too correct.

I am you,
And you are me.
There is no escape 
For either of us.

– Maya Desdemona