Their so-called "poker faces" give them away – they can't hide their true natures.

Every forced grin, every perfunctory comment fills me with rage. Stupidity, superficiality, conformity – all of it makes me want to burn, break, carve. In my mind I take a spade in hand and sink it, vibrating with the resistance, into the soft place between her ribs. It would punch easily through her diaphragm, and she would deflate, her supposed royalty draining from her face, which would gape at me with the first honest expression she'd ever given a person. I would tear the world to pieces, scattering the crowd like a house of cards. I would laugh in their faces.

Of course, these things only happen in my head, but still, I am unsettled by them. Does everyone dwell on such things? Or am I a freak, some sort of creep for my fantasies of blood gore, and retribution?

I know that within the confines of society I could never do these things. I know this. And so, when I take my knife in hand, I direct it inward, toward the only flesh over which I have complete control, and the only flesh I have the right to mutilate. This, too, they say, is a problem. So they throw me in hospitals and stuff chemicals into my blood in their vain attempts at fixing me. Because, to them, I am broken.

I'm a creep.

I'm a bad hand.

I don't belong here. Everyone can see that. But they leave me alone (for the most part) because they know that I don't want me here either. I'm sure they're thankful for my understanding of my position.

I think it's kind of funny.

That, although they try to say they want to help people like me, they can't help but sigh with relief when we're gone, in one way or another. No one wants a problem like me on their hands, and they don't bother to conceal it.

I don't care. As long as they're honest.

The worst thing is when they pretend to be concerned, and pretend to want to help. I know they're lying, and I hate them more than anyone else. I want to hurt them and spit in their faces.

But I can't. I'm not the dealer in this game.

So when I sink my blade into my own flesh, I imagine that it is theirs, and I shudder with the exhilaration of it. I barely know what I'm doing when I clumsily carve into myself, gritting my teeth and beating my feet on the ground from the pain. And the blood – the blood is the best part of it – is a deeper crimson than the Queen of Hearts herself. There is nothing more beautiful and nothing more pure, and I'm almost surprised that such elegance could have come from me. I dip my fingers in and swipe the blood across my grinning lips. I glare at my paper-white skin in the mirror and peer past greasy blond curls at my hooded purple eyes. I'm hideous, taken at face-value.

To the rest of the world, I have no value.

I am not part of the game.

I am something to be set to the side and ignored.

I am a joker.