I wanted to write a poem where I’m the heroine – maybe Joan of Arc or Cleopatra. I want to feel power; to be made strong through weakness, brave through fear – the only real strength. I could not return from battle blood-splattered. The marks on my skin, ink stains. The persistent callus on my ring finger is not from a bow or sword but a pen. I cannot fall in love. I won’t stand before an invader breast bared, expected to stand for a lover or a husband. I won’t die for him. I wonder if Lady Macbeth ever felt loved. Every romantic tale claims love is best found in bunkers or on battlefields, fostered in fear of death – the ultimate absence. I wonder if I’m meant to be a side character – the best friend. That won’t work either. I can’t avoid self-preservation. Perhaps the only proof that I’m the hero is that I will never write myself out of the story.