It was that first night

When I learned to let go of that nightlight.

I held on thinking you'd always be next door to save me —

for eternity —

turns out it wasn't meant to be.

I looked around my empty house and room,

wondering, "Where are you?"

You were nowhere to be found.

So I learned to suck it up.

I did.

I plugged out that Disney Princess nightlight

that left that wall socket permanently clogged

and released the blinds and windows from their sleeping chambers

to replace what was lost.

Disney magic doesn't last forever.

It was the next day when she left for work in the dark and bleak winter morning.

I stood out on the sidewalk, on-edge, off-hinged.

I was waiting for you.

You promised to take me to the bus stop,

but you weren't there. 

You said it wasn't safe out alone,

but you weren't there.

She didn't know that for a while I walked out by myself,

in the pitch black winter morning at 6:00 AM at age 12. 

But I did.

Routines don't last forever.

You said you would attend the last concert of the year.

But you didn't.

So you rainchecked for the next one.

And the next one.

And the next one.

And I got tired.

And I moved on.

Rainchecks can't carry forever.

You were my protector, my safe haven, my first Prince Charming—

My superhero.

But the myth and fable of superheroes can only dwell within a child's realitty.

Too bad I'm no longer a child —

Too bad you're no longer my superhero.