Marching in lockstep those soldiers pace
and clomp feet in time,
a pulsing army heartbeat,
with me, cowering under cloth for
fear they will see and know
that I am not healed, that they
have been patient enough and
I am still broken,
still putting myself back together,
but SO slowly, I must hurry
and I cannot,
not this time,
not like last time where I rushed
and chips were left unpainted,
cracks never smoothed and filled,
allowing their chants to burrow
back in and split the porcelain.