Conversation swirls around the room like cream in dark coffee,
and I envy the richness added.
My conversations are staccato, confusing and brutishly short,
my tongue like pinking shears,
clipping the words off,
leaving the edges ragged and trailing,
not suitable for tying up in pretty ribbon,
not welcomed into jolly remembrances shared out around the table like chocolate and marzipan,
a saboteur on my own behalf.
I am tight clenched with wincing as my mouth fumbles them,
as if my lips don’t form in the natural way,
and my eyes can only see the pounding waves dead ahead,
no safe landing,
just drowning in a sea of mashed consonants and misplaced vowels.
If I could rework each blushing remark,
each fractured exchange,
like a sculptor,
I would fill whole rooms with granite palavers,
all perfectly formed and forever beautiful.
My mind holds hopefully tight to the baubles and the glitter and scarves that dress other discourse so prettily,
yet the way remains closed,
and my tongue remains tied
and I sit with my sad, safe silences,
and furtively filch any leftover swirls from the sideline,
drinking them down and wondering at such richness.