Critique

Let your words come like leeches sucking bad blood from the body of my work. Swell with pride excising disturbing humors. Ill, I have come, and arm-bare, begging to be saved. Open a vein, young apothecary. There is plenty of humor to spare. I do not mind the mending knife, the fire of its kiss only brightens my chances of living. I do not mind the gluttony of innocent words as they draw away the poison. Fever throbs in my ears. Cure me.