Squealing mouths and sticky fingers,
Pudgy children I don’t know
grab and tear at the detritus
of my mother’s grand attempt
to cultivate sociability in barren ground.
Fetid pools of syrupy discharge
coagulate and taint the tables.
Shrill laughter in staccato bursts,
like gunshots to my soul,
as parents of these vile creatures
revel in their shared ignorance.
Flapping paper streamers,
my melancholy friends.
My fingers trace the bumps and ridges,
so fragile, so easily torn
on display for one day,
then gone and long forgotten.
Cut the cake to cut my despair.
A sickly saccharine mouth,
flytrap for my words.
Stuck, stick, stalled, stop.
No amount of prying can undo.
Unwrap presents, but not my tongue.