Knowing

Don't make me laugh.

You think you know?
That you understand how
I think and work?

No.

No, you don't, you don't know.
You don't understand.
You think, like all the rest,
That I'm just some babbling lunatic,
Albeit a very dangerous one.
That I can barely organize my thoughts,
That I know who I am and was,
And why.

Truth be told, I don't know anything.
No, really, I don't.
Honest, I don't.
My past conflicts with my present –
I'm a walking enigma,
A joke with no punch line,
Like gravity and entropy,
I'm just… there.

I came from I don't know where,
But I'm sure it's Gotham -
It's Gotham, I'm sure.
I was born here, I will die here,
And here I fell like all the rest.
Just like all the rest.
But who can ever blame the mad
For living in a mad city?

They can't figure out what's
Wrong with me – they don't know,
Have no leads on which to go
Upon. No evidence. No history.
Absolutely nothing.
Just knives and lint,
Just lies and alibis,
If even that.

I kill because I want to,
Because nobody gets
The joke anymore, and nobody
Ever laughs like they used to.
I kill because I have to,
Because the city doesn't understand.
I don't understand myself,
In both senses of the phrase.

And now for the kicker –
You don't know me at all.
But I know you.
I know everything about you.
I know you so well I'm almost
In your head, laughing when you
Think you're safe, laughing at
Your failure,

Slowly dissecting you from within.
Each encounter with you,
I understand a little more,
And you're that much closer
To being just like me.
Were we separated at birth? Ha!
Or maybe I see myself in you,
Like gazing into a mirror.

I bet I even know your name.

What, you think I don't?
Don't be naïve.

Now, let's see…
You definitely look like a
Bruce
To me…