There is a heart buried in the backyard and the neighbors are starting to complain about the smell. It’s not mine, but I am still purple as a bruise. My dearest Superman, there are other ways to be brave than becoming a martyr. I stitched that cape myself and wrapped it around you like sacrifice. Like ‘please come back when you’re done saving everyone’. Like ‘please stay safe while you’re chasing your monsters’. My dearest Superman, you have a chest that roars like a stadium full of fire. There is no shame in putting out some of the flames. There is no shame in quiet survival. My dearest Superman, your heavy eyelashes have swept the evil out of every city you’ve loved. Come back and look at me the way you used to. My dearest Superman, if this were a different story you’d step out of the phone booth and forgive yourself for not answering the calls. But you are already on someone else’s planet trying to stop the explosions before they happen. My dearest Superman, if you knew about the war in my hands, you would have spent a lifetime counting the casualties. You would have never left my side. My dearest Superman, sometimes it is easier to count the breaths of the living instead of the bodies of the dead. Sometimes it is easier to create your own peace than it is to destroy everyone else’s war. My dearest Superman, it’s okay if you need someone else to be the hero. It’s okay if you are tired of being so brave.
― Y.Z, what the comic books never told you (via avvfvl)