Polite Fiction

I scuffed the toe of my sneaker on the floor

and watched the black mark bloom on the white.

I said I was sorry for slamming the door

when I knew in my gut that I’d been in the right.

The word was a dry piece of toast in my throat,

a jagged, hard thing that I forced myself to swallow.

I watched the lie drift like a small, wooden boat

leaving the rest of the afternoon hollow.

It’s easier to bend than to break in the wind,

to offer a hand when you’d rather make a fist.

You count up the ways that you haven't quite sinned

and add one more name to the casualty list.