Taste of Belonging

The potluck feels like a masquerade ball,

every dish a costume, yet no one stands tall.

I shuffle through flavors, uncertain, misplaced,

my casserole cools while a stranger takes space.

Once a favorite, now it hides in the shade,

like me, lost in the crowd, where the joy starts to fade.

A half-empty bowl, wilting in the corner,

while laughter erupts, leaves my heart feeling worn-er.

I taste the confusion, the sweetness, the spice,

but every bite lingers, and none feels quite nice.

I’m scrambling for comfort, just wanting to fit,

as the masks hide the truth, like flavors unlit.