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
