It is funny, isn’t it?
That the car keeps arriving and unloading with
its squeaky little horn and its honking truths.
Red noses, ugly shoes,
confetti sprinkled in tea.
I chug it anyway.
I watch the car from the window:
a carnival thing, a cartoon disaster.
The smile peeled back too small.
I want to laugh. I really do.
It’s ridiculous—the dance, the juggling, the
way they pretend their scabs don’t hurt.
But you see it, right?
The twitch in the painted eye,
the wetness under the wig.
I want to be chosen.
I want to be given animal balloons,
to be the one lifted into the air.
But I’ve been picked before.
I’ve worn the flower that spits.
I’ve wiped the butter from the blade.
And still, the car keeps coming.
It waits at the curb,
stuffed with laughter like a mass grave.
What’s the difference between a clown and the dead?
Only the effort of keeping the mouth open.
They say joy multiplies when shared,
but this thing pulverizes me
until I’m dead by a thousand cuts,
a red rubber nose where my heart should be.
It is all a big fat joke until the car door opens again, again, and again.
Kaelyn Tan is a high school sophomore from the Bay Area, California, interested in literary arts and advocacy. Her work often explores themes like identity, coming-of-age, and social issues. When she is not matchmaking words, she enjoys studying East Asian history and drinking pearl milk tea.
Featured image by Damiano Linguari on Unsplash.
