I am not a funny person.

.

I am not a funny person, yet I

Strain words against the question of

My tongue, following

The laughter of hazel eyes I

Used to know. Well,

Know well.

.

I am not a funny person, but I

Find myself watching

Vines trying to humor my

Peers, ruckus laughter expelled within

The walls of their lungs, hollow

With nothing but forgotten

Words.

.

I am not a funny person, yet

I have made myself familiar

With the guns my fingers make- relishing within

The shallowness of my friends smiles, their

Teeth glinting in the false light of my

Beaming face- cautious

As always.

.

I am not a funny person, but

I knit myself into a new person in front of

My therapist, using

Yarn spun from my scars, creating

A pretence that I am not as affected

As I seem.

.

I am not a funny person, because

I wear my indifference, always

Too serious, too lost, never

Understanding those around me, never

Opening myself up, ripping apart my chest to

Accept the words from those I am

Never sure will use my

Naivety against me.

.

I am not a funny person. I

Refuse to cry in front of

My therapist, fearful of letting myself

Bear the weight of my chest to

Someone I will never share that intimacy

With, never know the way

She longs to read

My secrets like a book, my

Trauma like a play, my

Burdens like a song.

.

I am not a funny person, yet I

Still make her laugh, unaware of

How my question mark mouth has formed

The syllables strung together in

The form of

A joke.