You are not a hero

You are not a hero

Your scowls conceal tears, your jaw carrying the world's weight swinging clenched fists in societal pools. Your chest is a nitrogen prison, encasing a frozen heart, dreading warm spots. You are not a hero, so why are you cast as one? Your eyes are medieval spears impaling breast bones, slicked-back hair, and endomorph body a partner deterrent. Heroes are golden boys clad in blue tights, flaunting bat suits. Do you look like one? Swinging around skyscrapers, saving screaming civilians, mouths watering at sunlight glistening off your sweaty Hollywood six-packs? Does that sound like you?

You are a towering oaf with round pufferfish cheeks who alienates neighbours by hammering poorly written signs on your apartment doors for delivery drivers to leave packages on the mat. You are Shrek alone in your swamp, gnawing your fingernails down to nubs, flashing yellow teeth at passers-by who look at you. You are your own worst enemy, clutching theatre scripts in one hand, chewing greasy pizza dough in a half-lit. Your potbelly spills over your belt like melted ice cream, fast-food acid burning your throat from eating chocolate at three in the morning. Your own body villainises you.

        You stand atop a low budget stage, rolling your eyes at overly cheesy dialogue that nauseates you. 

        'I would die a thousand deaths for them to live one life.' What is this line? You crumple amateur pages between your greasy stumps, unapologetically flaunting your sour snarl at clothed medieval co-stars. What sappy fool writes this garbage? You look upon rows of empty theatre seats, trying to ignore a warm glossed smile radiating from a folded director's chair. She tilts a square pair of glasses over a crooked nose, finger gunning you to proceed. You nip your gums, defiling your tongue with heroic sentiments of love and selflessness, basking under a thousand stage lights twinkling of your silver knight armour.  

Enjoy it, bucko. You are no knight. Not ever the highest budget, multi-coloured stage lights could conceal the black fungus within. Go on, selflessly raise your plastic sword to a lucky dweeb who got your villain role, flaunt your bronze scabbard beneath your low budget shield and pretend to be the saviour. Guard your child co-stars' against fictional threats believing you've done an excellent job. Do what you must to fill the shrivelled raisin you call a heart. Even still, you are not a hero.

        Your cheek muscles strain and sting, forcing a golden smile behind rotting teeth. Your molars grind envious rage at the villain's black-cape, half-white mask, whipping a greased back ponytail about under red luminescence light. He has it easy, laughing manically and embracing his flaws and darkest mind. Playing the villain is child's play compared to heroes. You sit in hateful thoughts, tap into stewing cesspools of black gravy festering in your sub-conscience, scoop out chunks of broth from childhood trauma, and unleash your darkest desires. It's that easy.

        Compassionate lines are computerised, coming out of your mouth. Those ticklish butterflies you feel are a lie. You are not their saviour. You are a puppet. You glare daggers into the villain, your eardrums sore from listening to a dark orchestra song that should have been yours. Villains always get the best songs. The haunting chimes of organ keys shake the chandelier above, the bellowing drum blows, and young gothic choirs reach all the way to the back seats. You wish it was you in that long black cape, your meaty bouncer head and narrowed black eyes behind a half-concealed mask. Your mind is a fungi infestation rooted deep into your soul. Your chunky fingers defile stolen Amazon packages, your sour-smelling burps contaminate shopping lines, and your gluttonous salt ringed mouth gorges large Maccies fries during work time. The deadly sins are your shopping list. You are no hero.

        Heroes are charitable, swinging through cities and linking strolling elders. Saving orphans and lost kitties. Your oversized trousers conceal shuffling change, not a penny spared for shivering street hobos. You are no hero. Your tongue twists repeating these lines:

'You know, you can stay with me if you want. I know what it feels like, being alone.' Your tongue turns to sandpaper, forming that sentence. Charity is a rookie's move, exposing wallets to wandering fingers, opening the door to street pests craving your handouts. It should be you with the hairless cat on your knee, your pinkie finger near your lip as you stroke a purring Sphynx. Instead, you are a hero. The white knight of princess dreams, the Gary Stu of green playwright fingers. You swallow the urge to roll your eyes, nipping your tongue as orphaned characters hug your waist. You are the polished champion of fairy-tale dreams, your reflective armour and silky white cape your only traits. Flaunt your shining armour until red curtains close, and pretend you aren't the person who ate ketchup slathered hot dog in front of a starving old woman. You are no hero.

Your vocal cords entice audiences, portraying a lionheart. Your director's eyes water under chandelier lights, entranced by your low siren notes. Sing until your vocal cords numb, woo the princess of your dreams with a blood-red rose between gauntlet fingers. You are not a hero. You are not a hero.

Young eyes widen at your twinkling chest plate, your iron biceps shining like a thousand-star shines under the spotlight. You squeeze your meaty arms around peasant actors, feeling a fuzzy warmness inside. You enjoy it, don't you? Adoring gazes of young to old, the thunderous applause for the defender of the cardboard castle. You expect them to look at you like Hemsworth? I don't think so with that dangling blog of fat peeking under your chainmail, mate. You are not their hero. No matter how much they smile and wave, you aren't what they think. Squeeze and stretch your spandex suits over your gluttonous form, snatch delivery men's pizza boxes, and tell yourself you are a good person. You are a villain. Never forget that.