Dead Super Hero

 

It started as pinches,

the type that made your neighbours run to the wall,

to hear his words tingle – pins.

You noticed, as you walked the street,

neighbours whispered, “see where he had punched”.

 

It went to loud shots,

the type that made your neighbours run from the wall,

as his words tore your ego apart – pump actions.

You noticed, as you walked the street,

neighbours whispered, “see the bullet wounds here and there”.

 

What did you do? You wore a cape

that covered the deep slice – pain,

and the round holes at your back – shame.

Words didn’t hurt you no more.

Like one being delivered of a baby, you bore it

and watched his bullets bully your ego to depletion.

You were a super hero;

Super heroes don’t bleed from tear glands.

 

You wore yesterday,

a singlet on today. You waited.

Maybe a flint would spike tomorrow bright.

Tomorrow never came because

you died, from losing yourself, and your blood too.

You knew where your loss came from – his words.

The eavesdropping neighbours, they knew too.

You are not a super hero;

Super heroes know when to walk away.

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