Don't cradle me in those strong arms like you
will save me from the world's wrath if
you are only going to drop me like waste
when the fight comes a-knocking on our door.
I am only made of myths of bravery and
fables of wit. What I really am is what's
left of the scars printed on my rough outer skin
from the countless drops and the battles almost lost.
I know the fall; I need not a reminder.