I feel as small as a pixel in a broken window,
like some frightened fragment of imagination running amuck
in The place where lost toys and brave boys dare to tread.
I want to be somebody.
Someone brave.
Someone who's not afraid of the shattered baubles here.
Someone who can stand up to the wind-up soldier
the one with kung-fu grip and bayonet rifle.
A boy who won't run from the man in the closet.
The one who promises me fame and candy.
If I drop trow and bend over. If I sign this contract.
If I remove that portion of my brain that keeps me a boy.
I want to be brave enough to say no.
But I'm scared.
Mostly of the shiney glass orbs rotting from Paddington's asbestos skull.
He tells me to do things sometimes. I think once he was my friend.
But now he says I have to kill the manchild.
I have to drink the virgin out of the land.
I have to dance with my pale naked body pressed up to the man in the closet.
I'm starting to think he's that guy we heard about in sunday school.
The one with the fancy suit, and a great handshake.
They say He can get anyone to do anything.
Maybe he can get me to be brave.
Maybe if I talk nice with him-
He'll take the toys mom threw away back with him.
Maybe I can get some sleep.
Maybe he'll stop coming into my room rudely uninvited.
The green guys, with all those pointy parts that choke you when you bite down...
they're closing in. The clown I played with once on Christmas day says he wants his due.
And I suffer the promise of the man in my closet alone.
With each broken toy, each fragile forgotten memoir, each abandoned friend bearing witness
to my shame. To my ultimatum with fear.
To my first step toward being a man.
