On Form

First Blood

First Blood

First, that chill. It reached in, gripped your guts,

and tugged. You’d dealt with negativity, yes,

but not like this. The words still sting;

their waspish venom left you stunned.

Once the ringing mellowed to a buzz

you found they’d turned you downside-up,

nailing your flaws to the wall,

and as the blood rushed to your head

you struggled to find a retort.

It all makes sense, in retrospect.

The most valuable two cents you ever received,

given for free. You hate to be a charity case,

but now it registers:

the narrow scope

with which they picked off every detail;

bullet-point accuracy.

First blood. Fresh. It had to be;

A stain on your clean sheet, so

permanent.

The margin for error used up, red

ran rampant on the page,

reaching for your cheeks.

And there, the bottom line,

the most scathing critque:

C minus. Seems careless. See me.