A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

You talk to my inner critic. 
You address her directly:
    I’m here
    to love you
    gently
    and firmly
    until there is nothing left
    but compassion
    and care.
And it takes us by surprise.
It catches us off guard. 
My inner critic is a hard woman,
reaping where she does not sow.
She is strong, rough, demanding.
She expects that which she has no right to expect.
She knows the tricks of the trade.
She is immune to smooth words,
to platitudes. 
Everyone is all about loving themselves 
these days and she finds it exhausting.
By all means, love yourself, 
you should, 
you are worth loving,
but not so much me
she likes to remind me 
I need to be more. 
She’s seen everything
laid bare. 
She knows all the faults.
She’s traced the lines with her bare fingertips
till she knows them by heart.
She can recite them in her sleep.
She has no compassion for me. 
Your words reach out from the screen
like a warm                                 enveloping hug
                       against her will.
I know them to be true. 
I know intellectually that there is worth in here somewhere. 
I believe spiritually the He made me in His image
and that offers worth.
I spend all day seeing His image, His worth in others,
but not myself. 
She is so loud,
deep inside, 
railing at me with her should statements. 
    You should do this. 
    You should be that. 
    You should not think this. 
    You should not feel that. 
    You are not enough
    never will be enough. 
    Can’t you see it?
    she says to me 
    Why do you resist?
But this hug of words 
It reaches out of the screen
It touches her
and something shatters. She screams. 
She says
    I do not need the compassion - 
But I do. I need
to hear that quiet voice
that can drown out her screams with its sincerity.
I read the words again,
allow them to pass through her
over her
around her
till she cries
and I hug her too
and even this is weird:
Since when do I feel compassion for her?
and I feel her soften, only a little. 
She is pushing me away,
fighting me off,
but each push gets weaker.
Hot 
angry 
salty 
tears.
    Don’t make me do this.
    It’s too vulnerable. 
    I keep you safe 
    you foolish girl.
    This changes nothing, 
    I’m still in charge. 
    You can’t do this without me. 
    You know you can’t. 
(Methinks she protesteth too much.)
But we sit there
with her
hugging her
while she screams herself hoarse
and cries herself to sleep.
and for this brief moment
There is peace.
There is hope.