The Grey Heart
Somebody cracked a clean little joke, and the room took the bait with obedient art,
they shook out their laughter like coins from a pocket, each bright little chime playing its part.
I watched their faces uncurl into mercy, then felt nothing answer inside of my chest,
my mouth stayed shut like a boarded-up window, my pulse stayed flat, unimpressed.
A man in a tie slapped the table, a woman wiped tears from the corners of her eyes,
I stared at the punchline like paperwork, filed it away, let it die where it lies.
I used to laugh like a sinner forgiven, loud enough to disturb the polite,
now humor arrives like a stranger at midnight, and I leave it alone in the light.
They call me controlled, they call me composed, like I chose this frost for my skin,
truth is I’m tired of being a puppet, truth is I’m tired of pretending to win.
Every laugh in that room felt rented, like comfort on credit with interest and shame,
they laughed like it proved they were holy, then went right back to the grind and the blame.
I’ve heard too many jokes used as cover, soft smoke that hides a hard knife,
I’ve seen men grin while they take what they want, then claim it was “just” life.
A cheap wisecrack can grease a betrayal, make theft feel friendly and light,
I learned to keep my face unreadable, learned to keep my teeth out of sight.
Some kid with a loud voice and clean shoes leaned in like he owned the whole floor,
he said I must be fun at parties, said it with pity, said it once more.
I wanted to tell him my laughter got buried under years of small losses and costs,
under phone calls that go to silence, under birthdays that turn into frost,
under love that asked for a promise, then mocked me for bleeding it true,
under bosses who sell you a ladder, then kick at your fingers when you climb into view.
Let them laugh, let them clap, let them spin their bright circles on cue,
I’ll sit with my blank little weather and measure what laughter can’t do.
If joy is a mask, I won’t wear it, not for their comfort, not for their show,
I’m not cruel, I’m not holy, I’m just empty where a grin used to grow.
And if one day a joke cuts clean through me, not sweet, not safe, not polite,
I’ll laugh like a man resurrected, I’ll laugh like a fist finds a fight.
Till then I keep my face in order, keep my voice in its narrow lane,
grey heart, hard start, dull art, and a mind that remembers pain.