The Joker’s Up My Sleeve

The Joker’s Up My Sleeve

I wear a smile that isn’t mine,

stitched in blood, a crooked line.

They never guess the games I weave,

the joker’s always up my sleeve.

My laugh’s a blade in velvet cloth,

a gentle hand turned fevered wrath.

They toast to me with glass and grin,

but never see the trap I’m in.

Each gesture hides a darker scheme,

a rusted hinge beneath the gleam.

They play by rules they can’t conceive,

while I slip jokers from my sleeve.

I learned to lie before I spoke,

to mask the truth in wisps of smoke.

Each word I drop, a thread to pull,

each silence loaded, sharp and full.

They watch my lips and not my eyes,

too blind to read what fear belies.

They call me mad. They call me sly.

They never ask the reason why.

They think I play to win the game,

but I’m the flame—they’re just the frame.

I laugh too loud, I sleep too light,

I dream in red instead of night.

A child once, with knuckles bruised,

a voice unheard, a soul misused.

They broke me first, they taught me well,

how jesters thrive inside of hell.

Now every jest’s a subtle plea,

a mirror cracked so none see me.

I build my mask with needle thread,

from all the things I left unsaid.

They clap. They cheer. They never know

the joker’s pain runs deep below.

They never guess what I believe,

just what’s tucked up my haunted sleeve.

But here’s the twist they never see:

the final joke was played on me.

The cards I dealt, the lies I spun,

they caged me too, and now I’m done.

No laughter now, just brittle air,

a hollow chest, a vacant stare.

I fooled them all, and yet still I grieve…

For I became what’s up my sleeve.