He walks with no extraordinary gait,
No abnormal actions,
No external signs.

His steps sound human.
They are.

His voice sounds human.
It is.

So why does he hate himself.
Why do the charred hands within his chest scratch at the clay doll he calls a heart.
Why does he pick away at the chipping layer of lies and truths and in-betweens which coat his insides with a yellow paint.
Why does he pressure the unpressurable.
Why does he push every boundary but one.
Why is he the bad guy.

Why is his hero absent.
Where is he.