In Your Own Way

I found it written in faded blue,

in careful script beside my face—

you're so quiet, but it's true,

you're interesting in your own place,

your own way, they wrote.

I was seventeen. I read it as kindness.

Read it as someone seeing past the quiet,

finding something in my mindless

stare worth remarking, a riot

of recognition.

Now I understand what's underneath—

the but that's really a however,

the small adjustment, the wreath

of pity dressed as something clever,

of compassion dressed as compromise.

The handwriting was careful.

The pen pressed deliberately down,

like they wanted to be careful,

to prepare me, to make it known

that kindness was possible.

But it hurt. That specific blue,

that specific careful script,

that specific way they knew

how to make pity skip

the word pity and sound like care.

I'm still quiet. Still here.

Still interesting in my own way.

But now I know it's clear—

interesting despite, not the way

they meant it, interesting in spite

of being less-than, interesting

because they had to lower the height

of their standards, interesting

because they were kind enough

to see me and adjust.