To the youngster who noticed my inner warrior and advised me not to run and cry.
how can I conceal?
When my wounds serve as evidence that I lived
I participated in and survived the conflicts, and no one managed to catch me.
No trauma made me want to drown.
My fucks hurt so bad.
Nobody was saving me.
I continued to exist in the past. and eventually pass away.
We are not immortal; we die today or tomorrow.
But the strength of our imaginations is unmatched by that of a pen and paper.
You are the fighter, according to the writer in me.
Your advice is foreboding.
Even though you might have chosen a sword over a crown, you are not being reckless.