The Clown

He stands still,
motionless
just staring,
never blinking.

The bright colors of his pants,
intended to be inviting,
mix like cotton candy colored vomit.

His smile is menacing,
suggesting unnatural thoughts.
Happiness has never looked so terrifying.

His white gloves
wrap around every corner.
In the darkness they are all you can see,
strangling the frame of the door,
hovering.

Her psychologist calls this “paranoia”.

She deems it a “writer’s worst nightmare”,
a story waiting to be written,
but the main character is too real.
The story isn’t fiction.

You can wake up from a nightmare,
but she is living it.

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