I sharpen my teeth

 She said I sharpen my teeth on her softness,

but didn’t she offer her skin first?

Held up her bruises like medals,

then scolded me for staring.

What do you want, love:

silence or truth?

Choose.

In the house of words, we trade spit for salt.

You criticised my bite,

I criticised your mask.

Both of us holding up glass,

pretending it wasn’t a mirror.

You see, it starts with one voice

then echoes

until it’s a scream

no one owns.

You said: You’re cruel

as if I hadn’t learnt it from you.

From every sigh behind a door,

every almost-compliment

curled at the edge of your lips

like smoke from a burning letter.

They call it “constructive,”

as if we’re building something

other than guilt.

As if these fragile walls we patch

won’t crack again by morning.

I watched my reflection develop

your voice,

sharp, clever, cutting,

like a surgeon who forgot

they weren’t trying to heal.

And now, look at me, 

flinching at praise,

measuring love with rulers

marked in red ink.

The voices are still in here,

dueling like shadows

on nights I don’t sleep.

So let me say this, plain:

To be the criticised,

to be the critic,

is a dance in broken glass.

No one wins.

Only limps