Wallflower Protocol

The room buzzed loud with practiced cheer,

a hum of voices, bright and false.

I stood too close, then moved from there,

avoiding casual assaults.

To be a coat rack, or a chair,

a smudge upon the painted wall.

To breathe the manufactured air,

and simply cease to be at all.

No sudden ending, sharp and grim,

just fading out, a slow decline.

A wish to be beyond the brim

of this constructed, social line.

The potted fern, a silent friend,

its leaves a flat, unchanging green.

I wish my edges would unbend,

and vanish from the human scene.