My mask is thinnest because it is not my own.

I have neither created nor condoned it.

It grew like ivy

invasive, clutching at the walls of my lungs,

spreading a sheet over my lips

and filtering the shame into humor,

 shifting melancholy to biting sarcasm,

normalizing the distance.

I feel as if I have been painted,

clown makeup forced upon me

as I try to shriek.

My efforts to use my voice have been in vain.

Speak up!

Just tell someone if you need help!

Oh, you can’t be serious about that,

you’re always making jokes!

They tell me lies about myself.

They tell me I’m happy all the time,

that I couldn’t possibly be depressed

because I’m just too damn

funny. 

They must not be as smart as I thought.

They can't even discern a joke from fury.