This poem contains content that some may find offensive.
I don’t want to be your hero.
I was a child.
I took a dozen lashes.
Then stood up and said, “Fuck you.”
I don’t want to be your hero.
A heavy wet blanket of pain was draped over this boy’s body.
From the outside he was pummeled from different directions.
Directions.
From which direction will the next blow come?
I don’t want to be your hero.
I didn’t know why - and I didn’t know from where - the next one was coming.
I curled up, protecting, numbing myself from the blows but not from the pain.
The pain.
I felt your contempt.
Your gift of shame.
Your disgust - the self-hate you betrothed me.
But when you beat my mother?
When you beat my mother,
revenge rose and pushed down my shame.
And in my terror, I jumped onto the trapeze, and pulled your fucking tail as often as possible.
Remember, I didn’t climb all the way up there by myself..
You put me there - and you then handed me my very own baseball bat.
You didn’t know what happened to your reputation.
I did, though.
And I talked.
I talked.
I swung above you, out of sight, I tossed the heavy, blood stained blanket over YOUR head.
And I said “Fuck you.”
I don’t want to be your hero.
You didn’t know from what direction - you were betrayed.
‘In the name of the Father’ - betrayed you.
Your contempt for the children whom you tormented - betrayed you.
Your disgust for the young boys who didn’t defend their mother as you beat her - betrayed you.
Your accusation of cowardice - betrayed you.
Your sons’ terror and crushing toxic shame - betrayed you.
Your pride at being a thick, brutish brawler from Brooklyn - betrayed you.
And I said, “Fuck you.“
I betrayed you.
I don’t want to be your hero.
Dave H