I Am Not Much Of A People Person (a poem)

                                                     Photo source: SAATCHI ART

It’s morning.
We’re sipping herbal tea
‘’Hello my dear,
did you sleep alright?’’

I am not much of a people person

School bell rings.
Sharp strings pang.
Loveless souls detach.
Eerie breeze rattles in defiance.
Am I it?
Is it me?
Will I be?
Blank space. Numbing deafness. Immobility.
I am paralyzed.
‘’How are you feeling Ma’am?’’- I hear a three-headed silhouette whispering.
‘’I... I… I am quite well. Thank you.’’- suddenly in a scurry.
I evade the air of stifling halls.

I am not much of a people person

A gathering.
Double-edged squares chatting about,
muttering malevolent vocalizations to their chins behind each other’s backs.
Unbearable silence in desperate need of a meaningless small talk.
I take a sip of the whiskey.
It burns a flaring hole in my throat.
I paint a smile to hide my squeamish grimace.
I am not much of a drinker, and

I am not much of a people person  

I find myself drowning in a sea of people,
sickened and tormented I politely bid them ‘’Good mornings’’,
‘’Good afternoons’’ and lastly ‘’Good nights’’
I am presently at my humble abode.
I remember who I am.
I ache for liberation,
then I find it etched on my very skin
I am who I am
I am proud and earnest and queer, yet
I am not, nor will ever be, - much of a people person.