They call it gallows humor,
Cracking terrible jokes,
About painfully depressing things.
It’s a coping mechanism,
Meant to cover up the pain,
Frowned upon by parents, friends, and psychiatrists,
All firm believers,
In talking out the pain.
Screw them.
Screw them all.
There comes a point,
Where you physically cannot talk anymore,
Because you’ve said all the words,
You’ve rehashed the dirty details,
So many times,
That not even Shakespeare,
Could find different words,
To describe what happened.
The incredulity
Of everything you went through,
And all of the shit,
You voluntarily put up with,
Hits you like a freight train.
Realization,
That life is a stone cold bitch,
Strikes you,
You’re forced to either laugh or cry,
And you’re sick of crying.
So you laugh,
At the fading hickeys on your ex lover’s neck,
At yourself for being an idiot,
And at your friends,
Who stare at you in concern,
Unaware of how done you are,
With everything and everyone.
You laugh,
When you find out,
That your friends took bets,
On how long it would be,
Before you screwed up again,
Because they had only left you on your own,
For seventy-two fucking hours,
Before you proved them right.
You laugh,
When your ex enters into yet another relationship,
That you know he will inevitably screw up,
Because you can’t really bring yourself to feel the pain.
You laugh,
So hard that you can’t breathe,
Nearly hard enough,
To prove true the phrase
“laugh your ass off”
And while you know it’s just a turn of phrase,
Sometime you check,
Just to make sure,
Your ass is indeed still intact,
And because,
You have a damn fine ass,
That is getting very little appreciation.
You try your hardest,
To find the humor in everything.
And while your friends,
Stockpile straight jackets,
And construct padded cells,
You determinedly keep cracking jokes.
Because after all,
Laughter is the best medicine.
Rachelle Manning 