Solo

There's this: flying over the rooftops, laughing, feeling like you could burst out of your skin at any moment, listening to the scum of the earth beg and grovel at your feet, reveling in the rush of power, strolling down the street, pressing the Red button and hearing the subsequent explosion, giddy with havent-slept-in-two-days mania and blood on you jacket.

There's also this: shaking hands, shattering glass from when you forgets about your fucking *autopsy scars* and look in the mirror at the wrong time, smashing digital clocks with red numbers to pieces, laughing and hearing the echo of a basement in Africa, beating a punching bag until your knuckles are bloody and then some, throwing the Red helmet off because it's killing you, *suffocating* you, stumbling into your house at night to collapse still twitching from haven't-slept-in-two-days mania and blood on your jacket.

Some parts of you, you make sure everyone sees. Some parts of you, you shove down people's throats: a never ending mantra of look at me look at me Jason Peter Todd  the black sheep the one who laughs and blows people's heads off the psycho.

Some parts of you, you keep behind closed doors, blended with anger that scares even you sometimes. Some parts of you are a never ending mantra in your head: look at yourself, look at yourself, Jason Peter Todd, the one nobody wants around, he one nobody needs, the one who should have stayed dead, the nervous wreck.

(Rather be a psycho than a nervous wreck any day, but nothing ever goes the right way, anyway.)