They write poetry you wouldn’t even wipe your arse with. They spew out these passages on love and identity as if they actually meant something, but their problem is they don’t know shit because they’re not alive. They exist, but that’s about it. They’re so comfortable within their skin and the world around them. They speak no truth, they give no pain, all they’re good for is adding to the endless babble that’s nothing more than wallpaper. Their love is so pleasant, as is their conversation. So soft, so quaint. I dread to think how they fuck. Bet it’s as self-indulgent as everything else- all mood lighting and empty kissing. The more I look at that photo of Bana, the little girl living in Aleppo, Syria, the more she reminds me of Benisha. It’s in those deep, brown eyes. That innocence- an innocence others would rather snuff out because it’s easier to be cruel than it is to be sensitive and open, and this world, how it loves nothing better to devour those who show weakness. And then there’s this part of me that sees Bethany in her. She would’ve been around the same age had she lived, and no doubt she would’ve inherited Sarah’s brown eyes and brunette locks, just like little Bana. I want to rescue those who are weak and vulnerable. To give them a reason to smile. I’m a little man, not one for fighting or confrontation, or for standing up to those in a position of authority. And yet inside of me, there’s this soul that wants to exist in a state of being beyond what the lowly ones can muster. There’s this fire that keeps burning despite how dim the flames have fanned. I want to fly and take the hands of those in need and lift them high into the sky- to break away from this fucking mess and dance in a fountain of wine that eases our passage to a better way of being. Let me grab those bombs and throw them into the sun- let me scrub away these days and paint a new future where we can live as one. After all these years of dead ends, superstition and silence, all I’ve ever wanted was to be somebody’s superhero.