I'm The Broken One

It’s funny.

I use humor a lot in my life. I laugh at jokes, I laugh at nonsense. I laugh softly, I bellow.

I use humor as a shield. It protects me from my own insecurities, from my lack of confidence. I’m always trying to be funny, as I like it when people laugh. It means they like me.

I go too far.

I go too far, and the joke gets away from me, and the silence is deafening. Crushing.

I look around, and no one’s laughing.

It’s not that I did something wrong. It’s that they don’t care.

I’m the joke. I provide amusement in short bursts, but grow old after a while, and people lose interest.

I’m the broken one.

I’m the one who no one knows is broken. I’m the one who laughs and laughs, but goes back home and sits and wonders and worries.

I’m the one who goes over every detail, everything said, everything done. Every reaction.

I’m the one who looks around and sees others happy, but knows that their happiness is independent of myself. They’re living their lives, and I’m desperately grasping for a taste.

I’m one of a group, but I’m the broken one.

I’m the one who acts crazy but doesn’t feel crazy. I’m the one who people like but no one loves. I’m the shell, filled with a yearning for acceptance. Craving acknowledgment, but with a crack of doubt that empties the happiness quicker than it should.

I’m the broken one.

She’s the smart one. He’s the funny one. She’s the cute one. He’s the nice one.

I’m the broken one.

My life’s the joke, and no one is laughing because no one understands.

It’s funny.

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