Party Puppeteer


You regift laughter

to those fluent in humor.

You fear punchlines;


Punchlines that practice

jabs, hooks on sensitive spots:

appearance, shape, self.


You clutter the room

with miscommunication;

spit out sarcasm.


Your guests talk amongst

themselves: work, friends, boyfriends, too.

You translate each laugh,


every slapped knee, thigh

as a poke at your spine(less)

and you sink down low,


beneath the minglers.

You slither to your clutter,

find digs fixated


on you. “They won’t know

the difference.” You twist, pull on

compliments. Throw them:


Party grenade. Click.

The minglers glare back at you.

The chatter has ceased.


You sink back in chair.

Everyone slouches, silent.

You smirk, only once.


They are all on your level.


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