My Inner Critic…


I have put hardly any thought or any editing into this. I like it, though. I think.

My inner critic is a bit of a bitch, though I can’t really think of what she’s been up to. She just kind of lingers there right in the background and far too frequently I forget she exists but I never really can forget that she exists. She’s the bird on the power line on road two streets over and she’s the hair in the sink that gets caught around my hand when I’m washing up the dishes. She’s the slug in my bathroom by the toilet when I’m in the shower, she’s the wifi dropping down in the middle of the night. I don’t think about my inner critic, I just accept her and move on with my life but sometimes she’s there and sometimes I walk two streets over, and sometimes I need to piss after I’ve showered. That’s when she’s there, and I have to take a few steps to the right or hold my feet up in the air. I adjust, but it’s not comfortable, I’ll tell you that. My inner critic says shit to me, and I believe that it’s all true. She says I’m not as good as anyone else on my course, she says I’ve faked my way this far, and it’s going to bite me in the ass. My inner critic says my writing is childish, my writing is silly. My inner critic says a nap is far more productive, my inner critic says I just shouldn’t try.

The worst thing is that my inner critic is me. I don’t think she’s very far down. I think in reality the slug is in the shower with me, leaving his trails on my toes as he climbs my limbs and I think that the hair in the sink is the hair in my dinner and stuck between my teeth. Sometimes I think the bird two streets over sits there because he can see my house the clearest from there, and sometimes the wifi knows I have a deadline tomorrow. My inner critic knows.

My inner critic is five foot three, with shoulder-length hair and red framed glasses. My inner critic needs to lose weight, but my inner critic loves her thighs. My inner critic walks by and you’ll get a whiff of vanilla, and sometimes a hint of musk. When my inner critic touches your hand, her fingers are dry and her nails are sharp. My inner critic lives between the sheets – she’s cold to the touch unless she’s wrapped in eighteen blankets. My inner critic needs four pillows and three cushions, too.

I ask my inner critic – what do you want from me? Why do you try so hard to stop me? My inner critic tells me, that she wants me to give up. She wants me to accept that I’m not made for anything good. My inner critic tells me that she wants me to stop because everyone else deserves the time and space. She tells me that there’s one place I fit really good, and it’s between the duvet and the mattress and swallowing 40mg of Citalopram at 8pm sharp. So I ask my inner critic, how can we work better together? But she laughs and tells me to leave. Then I ask her “what is your inner wisdom?” and she says it’s the art of giving up. What is your secret, inner critic? What is if that makes you, you? She tells me, in the dark of the night with the windows pulled tight and the softness all around, that she doesn’t think she can try and stop me anymore.


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