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.
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