Folding In

The air was thick with laughter,

a kind of forced brightness.

And I just wanted to fold.

To collapse in on myself.

Not to end it, no.

Just to cease being seen.

To become the quiet hum

of the refrigerator,

or the dust motes

caught in a stray sunbeam,

gone when the curtain’s drawn.

Invisible.

The chatter felt like nails

on a blackboard I was living.

I excused myself,

dreaming of being just

a stain on the wallpaper,

a smudge on a windowpane,

something the eye skips over,

unremarkable, and free.