how long can you keep this up, the gallows humor. how long can you string them along on your smile? at what point will the truth leak out - will you later tell the story of how you cried over spilled milk with a laugh in your throat. will you later groan about not doing your homework. what funny demeaning names will you attach yourself to: will it be the ones in the mall while you are trying on a dress that’s a little too small, will it be the ones you utter when you don’t get out of bed, will it be the ones that slip out because you forgot something. how many breakdowns can you follow with a punchline. how many punches can you hide with a good one-liner. how many secrets can you disguise, how many times can you tell someone the truth and see them laugh before it breaks you. how monotone, how dry, how dark can you be, how can you say your pain so loudly and still have no one ask you if you’re dying. of course you’re dying. that’s the joke. the joke is that you’re a waste of space, a burden, a terrible human; the joke is “i hate myself,” the joke is “please kill me,” the joke is “god i wish i was dead.”
when do the jokes stop being jokes and start being promises?
