Painted Grin, Permanent Marker

He sat in the corner of the moment, pressed like a crease in a suit no longer worn, faking laughter in a dialect he'd forgotten how to speak. They called him Light-Bringer. Said he lit the room like a dying bulb— flickering, faulty, but still trying. Applause was his oxygen, but even lungs grow tired of breathing fire when the room only ever hands you smoke. A smile’s a scar in reverse. They stitched his on in childhood, taught him how to weaponise joy for others’ comfort, not his own. And so he danced— but not on stages, no— on eggshells, on deadlines, on antidepressants, and ex-lovers’ expectations. The joke? It wasn’t him who was the clown. It was us. We laughed at the punchline but never saw the setup: a man kneeling before the altar of performance, waiting for a god to say, “You may sit.” Every “I’m fine” was a magic trick: an escape act from rooms with no exits. The bottle half full? Only if you ignored the cracked glass. Half empty? Only if you believed he wanted to drink. They asked, “Why’s he down?” as if sadness were seasonal and not structural, as if clouds were decorations and not weather systems that follow the soul. The tears didn’t come from pain. They came from silence. From carrying the weight of other people’s light with bones made of shadow. Yes, he laid his weary head to rest— not in surrender, but in rebellion. A final laugh, echoing in the void: “If I’m the clown, then who’s writing this tragedy?”