Death of the inner critic

by Lise Day

after a full life of carping
persistent nagging
damning whispers
she has died, pallid, worn out
from being my constant companion

now I raise my flabby arms in dance
quilt with leaping tacking stitches
clash colours
paint imperfect pictures
(and my toes)
let my bulging tummy be
write unpunctuated
sing loudly off key

rest in peace darling
I cartwheel
on your coffin

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