They said it on a Wednesday

They said it on a Wednesday,

"You're really beautiful,"

casual, like weather,

and I turned away before

they finished,

laughed, self-deprecating,

said something diminished,

something hating.

I gave it back, unopened,

their kindness a gift

I wasn't prepared for,

and I created a rift,

a gap between their eyes

and mine, their truth

and my lies,

my refusal to let

anything through.

Later, I felt the weight,

the shame of rejecting

their sight, of creating

this wall, this fate

where I'd rather be alone

than believe I could be

what they saw, where I'd own

only my inability to see.

And now when I look

in the mirror, I see

what they saw in that book

of a moment, and I'm

haunted by it, by them,

by the kindness I couldn't claim,

by my own self-condemn.