This Joker is a Master of Charades.

They called me The master of charades
Another shelf placement holder.
Just a self hating
image parading model.
Berating myself for the tiny things I can't be.
Drowning myself because I felt you couldn't see me.
Snuffing my purity because
no one
wanted to be me.

Bring the pickets and the pitchforks
and throw on your hypocritical masks.
Bask the mirth of hating me.
Smite me for all that I seem to do wrong because
I'm apparently the new catastrophy;
everyone's just talking about me.
Because wrong has
never
been used in your books.

Masquerades
Masquerades are just games we play with each other.
Father and mother would have loved to sacrifice their lost and blank-faced daughter
If it would saved pure and clueless baby brother.
No one wants a mutant dumped in the acids of the world.
No one wants another black haired, slit wristed baby girl.
No One wanted poor, bewildered baby girl.
Masquerades are dizzy games
enough to make your hurl those words of shame.

I should be the joker
because apparently you're the Kings.
Laughing and jabbing with chastising fingers
as I screw up yet another thing.
Because, high on your thrones the joker can't do a thing.
Even after asking and
pleading for help.
They didn't do a goddam thing.
With their masks they pointed, jeered, and laughed.
They let Joker's blood turn black.
They left her wounds to sting.
They didn't do a goddam thing.

~C.I