Introvert with a side of Awkward

I walk into the room like I’ve got something to prove, except all I’ve got is a pocket full of social anxiety and a brain that short-circuits when small talk starts,
smiling like I rehearsed this in the mirror, but forgot the script halfway through and now I’m stuck on the loading screen,
nodding too much, laughing at jokes that weren’t funny, and praying no one notices I’m just here for the snacks and the exit sign.

I’m the kind of person who overthinks saying hi like it’s a diplomatic negotiation,
calculating eye contact like it’s a bomb timer–too little and I’m cold, too much and I’m a psycho,
so I settle for awkward glances at the floor like maybe it’ll swallow me whole if I stare hard enough.

Conversations feel like walking a tightrope over a pit of oh fuck, why did I say that?,
every word tumbling out of my mouth like I’m juggling knives with buttered fingers,
and the silence afterward? That’s just the universe’s way of letting me marinate in regret.

I’m the king of leaving early,
master of I’ll just sneak out before anyone notices I was here,
but someone always does, and then I’ve got to fake another smile,
another yeah, I’m good, just tired,
because I hate people doesn’t really fly in polite conversation.

Crowds feel like walls closing in,
each voice another brick in a fortress I didn’t ask to be trapped in,
and the worst part?
Half of them probably feel the same,
but we’re all too busy pretending we’re fine to admit
we’re just a bunch of awkward introverts
hoping someone else will make the first move.

But I’ll keep showing up,
fumbling through the chaos with a crooked grin,
because even if I’m a disaster in a room full of people,
it beats being a disaster alone in the dark.

And maybe that’s the trick–
owning the awkward,
wearing it like armor,
because if I’m going down,
I’m taking my weird with me.