I like to imagine myself as a shield Casting itself over it’s allies in battle Saving them from shrapnel and enemy attack On the front there was color It has long faded into a plain metallic sheen The color was not faded in one short stroke of grief But rather by years and years of wear and misuse It is filled with scratches Some from enemies, some from allies, some from myself On the back there are words Some that I say all the time Words like “I’m fine” and “Don’t worry about me” Others are phrases I wished I heard “Proud of you, son” “Good job, son” These words serve to protect the guise To persuade those who are protected by the shield To never glance at the battle-worn front Sometimes the shield is close to breaking Mostly from overuse Sometimes it breaks itself Chipping pieces off wondering why it doesn’t feel whole anymore What was once a thick, sturdy shield Has become a frail, flimsy barrier Ready to break at the slightest hit It refuses to go easily As if it were gone who would protect those behind it How could such an imperative device be so easily replaced How could others forget its purpose How could the shield forget its own worth