I often wonder:
 

 

Did I do the right thing?

Would an outsider criticize me for my decisions?

 

Beseeching my friends for help,

yet they shred my paper skin with criticism for my work.

Are they acting overly harsh or rather as a necessary evil?

 

They have become cold, chilling.

They tell me that they are my benefactors.

Frigid fingers altering errors; replacing them with their own visions?

Have they become self-righteous?

 

I fear that they will desert me like a child scorned by its parent.

Then who will help me

clean the slices cleaved into my confidence?

 

They, the collective, believe that they know what the individual could never attain.

For that purpose, I, innocent and unbeknownst, have been overcome by their mob rule.

 

They never wonder because they are always right: they are a monster.