Weak

A lonely tear glistens in the corner of your eye. That's the only part of you that shines. The rest of you is burnt and ashen. Flames of the sun lick you and scorch your soul. Your soul is leaving bit by bit and now it isn't you; not really. It is only a placeholder. A carefully constructed mirage which looks like you. But it is nothing more than the oxidised remains held together by the sheer will of the left-over soul. A light breeze blows by, threatening to bring down the facade. You survive. You cannot smile at the little victory because you need to maintain appearances. The tear though feels no compunction as it rolls down; down the cheek, down the neck, down to your heart, eroding the ash mercilessly in the process. It leaves an ugly trail, the first chink in the armour.