If I were super
I'd be no hero
I'd be the spirit of vengeance
For those too weak
To stand for themselves
The victims of the world
I'd spend every waking moment
Hunting down those
Who seek to destroy
Lives,
The rapists,  and killers,
Abusers, and bullies,
The corrupt,  and thieves
In all corners, in every tiny village
Every grand government building
All would pay
None would stay.
I'd be no hero
For I'd spare no mercy
I wouldn't make the world blind
Its been sightless
Since man learned to lie
If only I were super,
so I could not be a hero.

Crying because their stomach is empty. A child sits in the dirt hoping for relief. In another place a mother struggles to find money to buy her next meal. Outside of a non-descript building people wait in line to get a bowl of soup as they are drenched by a cold down pouring of rain. From block to block and down rural roads hunger cries out to be fed. Not in a 3rd world country that no one has ever heard of but in the cities and streets of America there is want. In a land so rich and full so many go without a morsel of bread or their next meal. The problem is not someone else's problem and it is not an idle pass time. Hunger is not a game, it is a reality that only we can stop.

The silence you clothe yourself in will become a second skin. You will work hard to remove it. You will scrub yourself raw until the sweet scent of orange blossoms replaces the lighter fluid that has seeped into your pores.

When you finally tell someone, you will be drunk. It will be 2 a.m. You will tell your parents, it will spill out of you as you hover over the toilet. Your secrets mixed with ***** and something sour, something burning, something permanent. It will feel good, to flush the pain out of your throat.

It will be hard for you to be intimate. When you talk to that boy in your English class, you will feel butterflies for the first time in months, those same butterflies whose wings were clipped that night last July. You feel the butterflies, yes, but you will cringe when his hand brushes up against your own.

When that same boy asks you out on a date, and he opens the car door for you, you will want to run. You will feel the air in your lungs combust when he kisses you. You will think he is trying to draw blood when he bites your lip.

You will wonder if he can he see the bruises and fingerprints that still stain your nakedness

You will not believe him when he says “I love you”

When he asks why you never want to touch him, why you talk in your sleep, why your chapped lips are a graveyard eroded from the salt streaming down your cheeks, you tell him everything.

You do not cringe when he tries to hold your hand this time.