The Jester dances the dance that makes the people laugh.
That’s her job. To play the fool, to ridicule without ridicule, to fumble and fart her way into your heart with her jokes and her gags and her cagey, Chesire Cat smile, until all you remember is laughing. You go to bed, lay your head on your pillow and say “This was a good night.”
What you don’t
Is the Jester disrobing.
Boots off of feet bloody from all the
trouncing she’s done for your entertainment.
Voice a metallic mess of shattered vocal chords
and cracked lips from the fear of the one word she might say to make you angry, “Off wif ‘er ‘ead and I’ll thankee not t’leave a stain onna carpet”
A growl, an inner howl of anguish and pain that you don’t comprehend because all you Hear are
Bells of her
The sweat soaked costume *sklikts* off her frame like dead, peeling skin still desperately trying to cling to a Framework of solidity
breastbone breaking against the
Shuddering tide of feelings she’s kept inside for so long that
In her dreams (that she don’t remember)
They fly like seagulls alongside the storm
High and free and Laughing
Knowing that it’ll all just start again tomorrow.