“I’m fine,” I say, a two-word cage,
A seething breath beneath the rage;
My smile, the crease ironed in place,
Hides the wound I dare not face.

“I’m fine,” I say, and quicken pace
Past bodies curled in cardboard space;
I’ve taught my chest to clench, go numb—
A heart turned stone that won’t succumb.

“I’m fine,” I say, as smokestacks write
Their judgement on the fading light;
I’ve learned to breathe what they provide,
To wear the stain and swallow pride.

“I’m fine,” I say—it’s grown symptomatic,
My blood now runs with threads of plastic;
I’m born to host what won’t decay,
A home for what won’t fade away.

“I’m fine,” I say, and scroll past hate,
Through feeds that whisper it’s too late;
I’ve trained my eyes to let them pass,
To view the wreck through tinted glass.

“I’m fine,” we say, and teach our young
To shape the lie upon their tongue;
We’ve pressed the bruise from kin to kin,
A purple mark beneath the skin.

“I’m fine,” I mouth, a marionette—
Whose strings they’ve knotted into net?
I’ve pawned the real for counterfeit,
And lost the marrow of regret.

“I’m fine,” I say—but feel the weight
Of all the words I couldn’t state;
I’ve raised my tomb from looking past,
And now the silence holds me fast.

“I’m fine,” I say—but it was never true.
I’ve buried what the truth once knew.
The lies have worn a groove so deep,
I speak them even in my sleep.