they have it easier than me,
gliding through conversations
with 20 new strangers, holding
a prosecco glass like a microphone -
a IMBD celebrity on a month long press tour.
eye contact measured, smiles firming,
questions deliberate and timed out.
while i become too conscious of the way
my arms cross, pants bunching up weirdly.
am i being awkward, can they hear me
thinking? do they feel this way too?
aware how they stare too long or too little,
often forgetting how sentence structure works, or if what they said was rude?
if this were a poem, somehow
this all would make me sound earnest,
but instead i’m here, off-putting, seemingly reflecting disinterest, instead of fear -
introspection kills the conversation again,
i must have used the wrong face this time.
i shudder in madness another night,
and await to replay it all again in the shower.