House of Clowns by A. eM.

JOKER

They called it the House of Clowns, but it felt more like a prison to me. A place where people were forced into roles they never chose, a refuge for outcasts with nowhere else to go. It was made for the amusement of others, but never for the happiness of those trapped inside. Slowly, it was draining me—stripping away not just my joy, but the core of who I once was. If I could remember anything from before this place, maybe I’d hold onto it. But all I know now is this—a life of smeared colors, an endless performance for an invisible audience.
They say what doesn’t break you makes you stronger. But that’s a lie. It doesn’t build you up; it wears you down, piece by piece until all that’s left is the mask you wear.