Can superheroes truly be super, if they die in droves?
One after the other
One by one
to ashes, to dust,
wind sweeping them across my feet,
dirtying the whites of my shoes
like the dust of my youth once did.

They didn’t all wear capes.
They wore cardigans, and glasses.
They smelled of fire, of thick clothes and leather
They smelled of sterile hallways and medicine.
They smelled of paper, and paint, and libraries…
They smelled of aftershave, and perfume.

They pushed and prodded and cheered.
They stared down the bridges of their noses.
They demanded and nurtured….
shaped the clay they were given,
gave it a name,
told it to trust in them,
for they were there.

It’s hard to see bruises in clay.
This I was unfortunate to learn.
Scars are written as variation in the original material,
marked and catalogued and labeled
with superglue and permanent ink
that silences the voice they made
so the screaming could be explained.

Just a bad batch.

Oh I screamed.
I screamed until I bled
and I screamed more.
Until the help I was given
drove the screaming down my throat
and into my head….
And I’ll never forget the smiles
that came with the golden silence they sought.

Because all must be saved if the screaming has stopped.
The monsters are gone.
It is safe.
No one accepted that the bad guys don’t buy watches.
No one wants to believe that the monsters aren’t in the alley…
but in the glint of light sparking off a hero’s smile.

At noon….
in schools, churches, hospitals, universities, precincts….houses.

But I am a child of this universe,
deserving of saving, of help, of voice,
And I fought through induced insanity,
through therapy, and radical acceptance,
and every pitied look at the labels after my name.
Every brush off
Every question of “are you sure you take your medications?”

I kicked and screamed and begged,
begged for a hero. Not even a super.
Just someone to hear my call.

Only to be labeled a success story…an example.
Do you see how it all worked out?
They knew I could do it…
I was stronger than I thought.

Thinking I was going to play the game
they taught me so long ago…

So, one by one they fall.
They fall with words forced out behind gritted teeth,
and bloody palms clenched with fear and rage.
They fall for my grace has no hand-rails,
They fall,
fo heroes gain their strength from belief,
from faith.

and mine fades with the waning beat of a voice heard
too late.