Here’s a short piece I wrote November last year. I almost didn’t post this because I thought I put something too dark and gory near the end but it turns out it’s still SFW lol. I thought the topic would be suitable for my current feels about the upcoming Captain America: Civil War–ackkkk!!11!!

Beware of guys who wish to be superheroes.

Beware of guys who wish to save the world. Guys who have big, self-sacrificing dreams. Guys like them, they wish to leave a mark in this world, to be remembered and to be honored. They wish to change people, societies, civilizations.

A guy like that, like them, will start with you.

He will tell you all sorts of things, like how wonderful your bedhead looks on you, how your cute short stride slows him down enough to see the world clearer–to see you clearer and brighter and shinier.

He will call you Sweetcheeks and princess and love, but he will refuse to say three words–“those three words”–because the timing just isn’t right.

(Spoiler: It never was.)

He will build you up–from debris, from wreckage–without any preamble, without any prodding or begging; he will take the closest piece, turn it sideways and back, and suddenly you’d find him solving the puzzle, your puzzlethe puzzle behind your carelessly glued facade.

He will tell you you’re beautiful, like all the other men who lived before his time did;he will promise you the world, sing to you like the Aladdin to your Jasmine. He will wax poetic about you and, and then he’d (half-heartedly) pretend he wasn’t talking about you.

He will delight in your small victories, like how you managed to see the sun rise today, and not because you failed (again) to give in to the need of sleep, but because today, you felt better and brighter. You felt better and brighter and a little bit sunnier, so you woke up early today to personally welcome sunshine to your day, your life.

He will use the most beautiful of words, like ardentlymagic, and stardustadore. He will leave you breathless, will make your chest cave in with every punch of warm fuzzies he sends your way. He will call you the cutest button with a straight face. The only cutest button.

He will stare, unabashedly, at every flutter of your lashes as you blink.

And it will be ironic, because it’s like you just blinked–and just like that, he’s gone.

He told you a lot of things, but never those three words.

Never, “Goodbye.”

You’ll be left with nothing but words–written, perhaps, or whispered to the wind (to your ear) like a private ode to you.

And when you step back, when you withdraw from the fantasy he weaved for you, you see for the first time the marks he left on you: purple and pink and bluish, blooming like a nebula cultivated underneath your skin.

You touch it, briefly, and it hurts a little less than the memories. You ask other people if they look bad, the marks, marring your body. But there is only pity in their eyes as they tell you there are no “marks”, only tear tracks and vicious scratches on your arms from when you tried to hold yourself together–because it felt like falling apart, again, except this time you can’t let a hero help.

You can’t let a hero help because heroes want to be remembered, and only the dead have monuments and shrines built for them–a medal awarded for when they finally stop breathing. A token for their heroism and their death.

I didn’t have the guts to stand up and protest that he was no hero.

He was ordinary.

Beware of hero-wannabes.

They get it in their heads that they need to save people like me. They will uproot you from your mishaps and plant hope in your heart, and even the blackest, uncultivated soil will desperately grow hope at their hands, and when they leave, hope will wither and die.

Hope will rot and become just another toxic feeling left behind by the heroes who failed.

Featured photo by Mary Blair from a collection curated by Tom Simpson on Flickr


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