Against Composure by Didi West

Against Composure 

I make a dazzling first impression.
It’s easy, really—
charm is a trick of rhythm,
and I’ve spent years keeping time.
But rhythm falters.
The joke lands wrong.
My kindness begins to echo.
Someone sighs.
I become too much again.
When did the world decide
that callousness was elegant?
That gentleness required apology?
That cruelty was a fair response
to a person who simply spoke too long?
I’m told to adjust.
To dilute.
To learn the choreography of acceptable.
But my mind never learned
to whisper when it’s curious
or to sleep when it’s alive.
Still, I marvel at people—
their beauty only reveals itself
after their compassion does.
Maybe that’s why faces blur for me,
until the kindness sharpens them into focus.
I’m guilty, I suppose—
of honesty without varnish,
of enthusiasm mistaken for noise.
If that’s a crime,
then the world must love its prisoners
quiet.