Dirty windows look in on her. With empty fingers pointing and villains she cannot see. The rush of heroes from the wet wind scares her out of her disguise. The rain paints portraits in the pots. Broken villains grow from the concrete. Bit of putrid chiffon coddling her breasts in ugly hands.
Tomorrow we'll be other people. But tonight we're only us. Heroes without any costumes. Villains without any masks.
Can we be saved? Do we want to be telling this story when we're old?
About how we lied. Pretended we saved ourselves when all we really did was slip into someone else's the cape.
Princesses on steroids. Superman on heroin. Saving everyone but ourselves. It's pretty. When I'm that lost and nothing is awkward. If I must be a hero I want to do it alone.
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