Mirakee
Death of the Party
All these people,
many I don't know.
The ability to zone
conversations out
soothes my secret soul.
I stand near the edges,
not functionally making words flow,
avoiding eye contact
and shying interaction.
Snacks cover the counters,
I don't eat.
Too much glutinous carbs,
but I hear my stomach growl with anticipation
Small talk is pitiful,
and opinions take offence.
To not participate
is my last defense.
Can't trust to take a drink.
If I go out to dance,
A drug being sinked,
There's always a chance.
It's awfully quiet
being reclusive,
solitude can be cold.
Cold as the winter night
outside this window beside me.
©miss_lyra
