Cracked and scarred, others think you are a monster,
Your body is marred by scratches and scorch marks.
You wear these injuries not like blemishes,
But as decorations. Like so many paintstrokes-
Lines sweeping across the backs of your hands to the crook of your back-
Covering what was once there.
You hate to fight.
The child, the animal,
Crawling on all fours, explores new things with its wide, wet mouth.
The fighter, the beast,
Rearing up on two legs to fight, sees threats in the eyes of each stranger.
You, the creator-
Sitting in the shade, tell tales of new heroes in wide worlds.
No longer a child, no longer a beast,
You are not a warrior.
your body is not a shield,
Stepping boldly between the child and the towering threat.
You are a storyteller.
Your words are stones,
Each block falling on the next with a resounding ‘clang.’
You build a temple to protect these memories.