The Aftermath

I wanted to be a hero that people looked up to. The kind that people wrote books about. And then I became one. People browsed library shelves, climbed ladders to take down books of me and read my biography. I dreamt it, and shockingly, it became reality.

Only it is a strange reality. A label that doesn’t quite fit. Like wearing someone else’s suit. A suit that would fit others better, only they aren’t here; the jacket hangs from my shoulders. I don’t quite believe I deserve this label, and I’m not sure if I want to keep it or return it. I’d like to ask for a second opinion on this hero’s suit, but there’s no one I can ask. No one who will understand. No one I can trust. I wander lonely as a cloud; no one else is in my atmosphere.

From The Sunday Muse

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Written for Poets and Storytellers United, Word Of The Day Challenge, The Sunday Muse, and dVerse

Note: This is 100% fictional (Updated: This poem is 87.5% fictional; I did the math). I haven’t done a single thing that could be considered heroic. Only wrote this in first person because of the prompt.