When you want to
be a
superhero​, but

your origin reads
like every sad
supervillian story

and your past
consumes you

like the bathroom towel
you once threw around
your neck
as a child

caught in a world of
make-believe.

But, as a child,
you drop the cape
as your archnemesis
tightens his grip
around your neck
and makes you believe
you deserve this pain.

You learn quick
how powerless you are
and delve further away
from the possibility
that a hero lurks inside.

And, in your land of
make-believe,
you become the sidekick
to the heroes
who wouldn’t take that shit
as you watch the woman
who birthed you
take on the role of victim
alongside you.

This is not how heroes live.

These are the lives of
the people
the hero saves.

But no one with a cape
can save you.
And you can’t save
your mother.

Because the past
isn’t a back issue
of an old story arc.

It’s your origin.

It’s the story that
explains your moral compass
and how you’ve come to
find comfort in
unhappy endings,
being alone,
putting yourself down,
and doubting that
there was ever a hero
lurking within

trying to fly.

Going invisible instead.

 

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