Inappropriate timing. An original poem.
They say,
“My grandma passed,”
and I say,
“Damn, guess heaven needed a baddie.”
I laugh
like the air isn’t thick with grief,
like I’m not knee-deep in someone else’s tragedy
splashing around with a grin.
Somebody cries
and I pretend I dropped something—
a sigh, a punchline,
my ability to be human.
It’s not that I don’t care.
It’s just—
somewhere between the silence and the sincerity,
my wiring short-circuits.
Cue sarcasm.
Cue smile.
Cue juvenile idiocy.
They bleed and I hand them a joke.
They drown and I offer floaties
shaped like cartoon ducks.
I don’t know what else to do.
God forbid the room gets too quiet.
God forbid they see me
unequipped.
Soft.
Still.
I laugh because I’m scared.
I laugh because I never learned
how not to.
Because growing up,
“serious” meant someone might hit you.
So I dodge it.
With humor. With noise. With childish charm.
They say,
“You’re not taking this seriously.”
I say,
“You’re probably right.”
And smile,
like that’s a funny thing.
Like I’m not bleeding under it.
