Put on a happy face.

That’s all I can do anymore. There’s no room for showing emotion apart from the ones that make you happy. During every interaction with you, I roll up my sleeves to conceal my heart because you can’t handle the truths that swirl within it. Out of sight and out of mind — as long as I appear perpetually content, there must be nothing wrong, right?

I’ve become the Joker, but you were never my Harley. I waste away beneath the shadow of your dark knight, unable to be my true self because of the way my depression affects you.

So let’s bow to the queen, put on a grin from ear to twisted ear, and see what sort of mask I must don today. I get the privilege of being your anti-depressant, suppressing all that I feel every day to make sure you survive the night. You don’t need to know about the interest in self-harm, the demented daydreams, or the suicidal inclinations, because of course I can’t act on any of it without collateral damage. A sense of unconscious blackmail, so to speak.

I’ll just wither away internally — silently — as my insanity continues to build. This conversation with you has become so trite with repetition. Isn’t that the definition of insanity? Except I’m not sure I ever expected a different result from you.

Oh well, back to my perfect life.

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