The Critique of a Hypocrite

Your criticism makes onions cry.
It embitters cucumbers, vegetable dry,
immature, kicking kittens and
short sheeting beds.

Your criticism turns blue into red
skipping purple entirely,
missing whole the spectrum.  

Because your criticism hates color.  
And silence
and noise
as it picks at scabs, leaving scars

banging its head on our life to say:

Do better.

So we nod.

And swallow your criticism,
coughing it up when you're not watching.