Sharing your writing with someone in its nascent form is like carving open your womb for them to inspect: You hold your breath and pray.
That they won’t: poke about with a sodden stick.
Won’t: Touch the tender bits.
Will: Notice that you’re inflamed.
And that, when done, they’ll hurriedly close the gaping wound and not tell you in agonizing detail about the tumors, the polyps, the cysts and fibroids, the bleeding cells, the lacerations, and the festering gunk they saw.
Hope. You can only hope. For once it is opened, it is owned by the sky. And you can only peer hiddenly from the shrunken margins of your own verse.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi