It Doesn't Have A Title
She needed a hero,
in her weakness she needed a shoulder to pour out her heart.
Shed the tears she felt inside,
show them she felt the butterflies despite the broken glass from past lovers she thought were the one.
The one to paint sunshine in all the blue she saw,
each day the rains poured the well filled up with her wishes that never came true,
the truth small numbers discarded of all the times she counted herself happy.
They never lasted,
like the caped hero thought it a good job after they'd taken her places.
She imagined a scene,
were the hero's last stand would leave him breathless,
and in his last moments he'd hold her porcelain face,
and tell her,
the pain he gave her was his was of coping with the day he thought she'd leave.
She'd wake from this dream,
in the dead of the night to the realization that this hero never came.
That this hero wasn't the one.
That this hero didn't care enough to listen to her ghosts.
She'd bleed in silence,
pick up the pieces to a love she thought she'd shared.
That never existed,
that the memories she thought they'd shared were just s figment of her imagination,
he'd blow kisses instead.
She thought to herself,
she didn't ask for the world,
but just a small portion of it to call her own.
For her rotting anxiety and depression to fall in arms that she'd finally call home.
This hero that she needed never came,
each night she'd wake expectant to salt stained pillows alone, she wept.
She'd listen to her broken words a sad recital,
this hero never came,
to save her from her lonely love this movie without a title.