Confetti for the Existential Dread

They called it harmless fun,

this carnival of thumbtacks under ergonomic chairs and shoelaces knotted to memory's ankles,

a grand performance where the copier sings off-key and the kaleidoscope in the break room

spins only shades of beige and unpaid overtime.

I wear the face they laugh at because laughter buys time,

because the paperclips I’ve chained into a crown feel more regal than the emails I delete unread,

and if I juggle their delusions just right, left hand sarcasm, right hand despair,

they won’t notice the hollow behind my jokes,

the deep, humming void that smells faintly of burnt coffee and forgotten birthdays.

There’s a post-it note in the supply closet that knows my real name,

but I covered it with glitter and a joke about HR so no one would look too close.

We prank because to scream would make the silence real,

because if we fill the air with stapler confetti and shrieks of fake surprise,

maybe no one will notice how long we’ve been falling.

And still, every morning, I spin my chair like a roulette wheel,

grinning through painted teeth,

hoping this time

something changes.