Faint Praise

'I enjoyed your little stories.' She said.
How can such blunt words cut me so?
With ink in my paper cuts, I'm finger
-tattooed like a scrivener at his desk.

Little?

There was blood in the ink;
the words scarred the paper,
each pen-stroke was torn from my soul:
- thank you, Vincent, for explaining.

Little?

I cried remembering them,
the people we had been.
Each player was drawn from the life -
- thank you, reader, for your sneering.

I enjoyed my 'little' stories, I made
the words as sharp as I knew how.
Her salt in my paper cuts, I'm writing
painfully, a scribbler at his desk.