don't even know where to begin—
hmm, what to criticize first? with malice
in their eyes, they
scrutinize
sizing me up, tearing me down,
breaking apart: each piece is to be
examined, catalogued, systematically
destroyed.

these fuckers can't even begin to understand
the meaning of insecure.

—the lack of, the opposite of, the loss of
integrity; poor self-esteem; inability to be
what they want me to be while still exhibiting
the self-preservation they declare necessary to my
survival. to live is to die. so be it.

i will not be defined by your dishonesties.

they swirl around me, they, with their
sharp tongues and black, dormant
hearts, critique my life-style, trying to determine,
futilely, my death style. oh,
how finite each infinite breath,
how imperfect each perfect moment.

i'm being assassinated by proxy.