about heroes

How come all the right lines
come all at the wrong time?
The words stream down my face now,
making the perfect sense that I intended from the start.

And now it’s their turn;
Faces, staring back at me from all directions,
asking me why I can’t make them better.
And they scream.

And they yell and they tell me
that I’m as fucking bad as them.
And I am
and I am
and I’m worse.
And each hearse belongs to my sad selfish body,

because I could never
save anyone but me.

That is not a hero.

That is not a person.

I am undeserving of myself,
of even these clichéd, self-centered words.

I have always been sorry.

But that is, I am, never even close to enough.