Careful. You never know when someone unexpected will perform a sleight of hand, and in turn, send you flying hopelessly off into the night sky. Those basic bitches that turn into complicated Jokers, tearing off their perfectly symmetrical faces and revealing a head filled with riddles, lies, and insults. They are no longer the one that gazed upon you as if you were the only person in existence. No. Now they see through you, only looking for & finding things that they can manipulate and condemn later.
The Joker does not give praise.
I should have seen this coming. There are only so many plugs I can put into the pores of my true self; only so much time that can pass before my own face is ripped off, exposing the tip-toeing little girl that rocks herself to the beat of an unheard song. She is too starving for attention. She is too desperate for love. She is a sexual abuse survivor that became a slut. She is covered in stretch marks, cellulite. She has gotten fat. Her skin is blemished, and her hair is straw. The soap that she used to wash her mouth out with, has caused her teeth to rot away.
The Joker exposes her; the Joker exposes I. He puts me on the pedestal, and begins to recount all of the things he has been keeping on his list this entire time. One by one, he will call me on all of my deepest, darkest triggers. He will reel me in with words of comfort, and then turn his back & laugh, as if his desire all along was to push me off of the cliff I had been struggling to stand on.
He offers sweet promises of deep love and unconditional compassion, oh yes the Joker is a talented poet. He sews words together as if they were creating a fine Egyptian silk garment, fit for royalty. These things, he knows, will soften the hardness around my heart. They will expose the vulnerabilities in my feeble thick skin. The Joker will be the All-Knowing, the All-Trusted King. His hands will bless my meek mind. And I will trust him fully, because he is the protector and guardian I have been waiting for my entire life.
And oh, do I love him. But oh, how I’m dying. My bones are cracking and my lips are chapping. My heart is beating faster and faster each day, threatening to jump out of my chest. New scars are arriving, from the obsessive picking and cutting that is my only solace. I speak less, and hear more in my head. The bad voices are back, haunting me and coaxing me to that beautiful little suicide. My eyes are hurting from the nightmares, and my gums are bleeding from the silent screams.
The Joker is sending me to hell. And there I will go, perhaps. For we all know, the Joker has a certain charm. He hooks you into believing that your salvation lies with his torture. He injects you with his lies until your blood pumps darkness, death, fear, and cold.
Is he me? Is he you?
It matter not. He offers no apologies, no regrets, no remorse. The Joker is simply doing what he has to do to survive. This is his coping mechanism. And it is killing me.