The Jester's Cloak

"You are so funny," you say between chortles.

I am, aren't I?

Humor. A shield I've grown accustomed to all my life.
While you laugh, the bleeding nails from all the nervous picking go unnoticed.
The constant tugging at this dress ever since I walked in because it's not what I wanted to wear, invisible. I hate dresses. And crowds. And smiling clownly until my ears hurt.

While you laugh, I can fool myself into easing in with the crowd. I am one of them. The gulp of air making a bed in my throat and blocking it long enough to make my eyes red and my head want to pop, is nothing more than a mere trifle. I am funny. It's the thing that's important.

As you laugh, l get to ignore the twinge of hurt I feel on realizing that the cute guy who just joined us greeted everyone at the table except for me. At least he noticed my wit, I saw him laugh. It's a small comfort, but I'll take it.

No apology is needed since no one noticed the little piece of chicken that made its way from my shaking fork to the floor. We are lost in the raucous revelry of our madness.

I'm the dancing clown, ready to entertain your evenings while I await the quick passing of time to award me an exit out of this room and the noise that comes with it.

So, by all means, laugh and let humor be the curtain that I hide behind once more.