Yield

The hardware store smells like a scream of steel,

the key-cutting machine making everything real.

You pushed your cart past with a box of black bags,

while my confidence tore into damp, heavy rags.

I had the whole speech, every line, every word,

but I stood there like something remarkably absurd.

I held my one lightbulb and nodded you through,

conceding the aisle because that's what I do.

You didn't look tired or even slightly ashamed,

while I stood in the corner, feeling renamed.

I learned that a silence is just a slow debt,

and winning is something I haven't done yet.