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.