How the Joker Bleeds

At its heart, this poem is about beauty that hurts, masks that harden, and longing for someone to see past the performance and ask, are you okay, really?

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They call me joker but I know too much of grief to ever laugh freely,

my suit stitched from spectral threads of delight mixed with fear,

like carnival masks cracking under candlelight, revealing the raw pulp of sadness beneath.

I shuffle the deck with fingers that remember betrayal too well,

each card a shard of something I once trusted,

the queen who never stayed, the king who fell from grace,

the spade that cut through a promise I made to myself in a brighter room.

My smile is painted, yes, but it was carved first—

etched in dusk when magic turned cruel and the crowd cheered anyway,

their applause a song for the self I buried beneath velvet laughter and confetti sorrow.

There is a beauty in the spectacle,

in the whirl of orange fire and ace-shaped shadows,

but even beauty becomes an affliction when you’re the trick that no one unmasks,

the voice in the drumroll saying this is not real, but no one listens.

I dance in pinstripes while the world draws cards from my breath,

and each time I flip a heart, I bleed a little into the silence,

hoping someone, anyone, will fold before I vanish from the game.