The Compliment

You were reaching for the salt

when you said you liked my lack of pride,

how I don't care if things look finished

or if the edges are frayed on the inside.

I sat there tearing a dinner roll,

shredding the soft white center to crumbs.

You thought you were being kind

while I felt my throat go numb.

I’ve been working on that secret for a year,

polishing the wood until it glowed.

You saw a rough draft and patted my head,

and now I want to leave it by the side of the road.