Who’s your hero?
They ask, siting impatiently for an answer.
The thoughts of families drawn in crayon on classroom walls make me sick.
My stomach lurches at the thought of Mom being a hero.
My heroes are the pills she uses to escape reality.
I used to cry when she washed it down with wine,
when the vomit would cover the carpet, but not anymore.
My heroes are the knuckles hitting my cheeks to remind me to keep my thoughts to myself.
Dad always knows best!
My heroes are the girls in the locker room who shove my bra in the toilet.
I buy oversized jackets from thrift shops just to hide my free swinging breasts.
But they still point and ridicule like they have the right.
My heroes are the teachers who turn the other way when they notice the scars.
Miss Finagan tells me to pull my sleeves down,
and asks how my father’s doing with a rush of color to her pasty cheeks.
No, Miss Finagan, my dad will not fuck you. Again.
These special people, these heroes…
they’ve all taught me one thing:
This world isn’t worth living in.