I am fine,

we say,

Why would I ever want 

to change the way

I see myself everyday?

We say.

 

It's supposed to work like that,

we say.

I'm supposed to act like that,

we say.

I'm fine,

we say.

 

But we are not fine,

I am not fine.

I am broken -

we are broken.

We are chipped.

We are not one.

 

I am a broken toy soldier.

Like them, but not.

I'm not visible,

yet,

I'm seen for miles.

My blue coat leaks red ink.

 

I am okay,

we say,

in unison,

as a force,

an army.

Ready as one.

 

But they are toys.

I am a toy,

Childish, forgotten, frozen.

Identical, we say.

Except, we're not,

I whisper.

 

I fight with grace and form,

I excell always,

I'm strong and perfect,

we say.

Without a doubt,

we are liars this way.

 

I am a broken toy soldier

Rattled, peeling.

Crumpled, sad.

A smile frozen on my lips,

painted there against my will.

Is all of this red, ink?

 

I am perfect, we say.

Everything I need is

here, we say.

What more 

could I want?

We say.

 

But I am not pefect,

we are not perfect.

The world beyond us 

is not perfect.

Instead, it's real and as imperfect

as we deny ourselves to be.

 

There is nothing wrong,

we say.

There is nothing but joy,

and happiness, we say.

You lie, I say,

onto a sea of deaf ears.

 

I am a broken toy soldier. 

Muted before,

but not longer blind

to the reality around us.

Nothing is fine.

Nothing was ever fine.

This is not ink on my coat.