Martyrial Gain

Who knows that I'm a mess?
Who knows that every confident statement I make
  is underwritten by about 100 desperate doubts?
Who knows about that dark place?
Who can safely empathize with my sin without it costing
  them their façade of confident holiness?

Who shall speak with authority?
Who shall we look to for answers to the questions
  that churn about like ulcerous puss in our bellies?
Who is that sage for our day with all the right words?
Who among us humans wouldn't abandon everything they
  owned for a peace of a piece of mind?

For, no superhero is necessary without the existence of a villain;
  else the superhero is cast aside as an obnoxious overachiever.
So, create a villain you can conquer, and now you're superman.

And, make me your villain, oh cruel Fates!

I will stand against you, wearing my error like a cape
  and my inadequacies like an emblem on my wiry chest.
I will turn my clenched jaw and furrowed brow to your fury,
  and I'll smile as you crush my weakened form.
For I am that villain—worthy of a villain's death.
But my smile on that fateful day comes not from confidence
  in myself; it is the smile of reminiscence.

It's a smile which remembers that, in the days of old,
  an anomaly lived and empathized with the dark, doubtful messes,
    costing him his façde of confident holiness.
It's a smile that gazes into the eyes of a Sage,
  a sage who spoke with authority and had the right words
    to question our questions and put our stomachs to rest.
It's a smile that remembers a hero who was made a villain by all—
  all the villains who'd made themselves into heroes by finding
    weaker, dumber villains to punish for their crimes.
It's a smile that sees the Real Hero crushed and bruised,
  wearing my errors like a cape and my inadequacies like an emblem
    on his bleeding, motionless chest.