Never Wore the Same Pair Twice

The first pair was part of a costume
for a school play in junior high.
I was Captain America. I was a hero.
I liked the way everyone looked up to me,
like I was special, like I had super
powers. I knew I was nothing
without the script and singular-starred shield,
yet I could tell the girl who played
Wonder Woman liked me. A lot.
I’m don’t really remember strangling
her with her golden lasso. It must have
happened quickly, like the rabbit
by the wood shed, whose neck I snapped.
Mother told me to watch out for girls
who were fresh. They’ll ruin your life,
she’d say. It wasn’t always easy for me.
I had to remind myself how much
I was helping them, rescuing them
from a life of sin. I never wore the same
pair twice. It was my way of honoring
them as individuals. No fingerprints
at the crime scene; no blood
on my hands.