She said it tasted good—
the salt, the cream, the cheese—
her words like a melody
I didn’t know how to hear.
Nothing was wrong?
But that couldn’t be.
My hands, so used to trembling,
Covered in doubt and oil.
I stood there,
awkward in my victory,
trying to accept the compliment
like a rusty vending machine
taking a crinkly dollar.

Insults come by the dozen,
Sharp dimes that cut me clean,
familiar in their weightlessness,
easy to pocket.

But these **** compliments,
they are a currency I can't trust—
complicated notes with symbols and pictures,
written in a language I must decode,
pressing them to the light
for counterfeit marks
before I dare believe their worth.

They stick to me like unearned badges,
heavy, yet soft,
Meant for a self I refuse to see.
Still, I hold onto hers,
tucked awkwardly in my palm,
a note I haven’t yet learned to spend,
but one I want, desperately, to believe.