Cowardice

I did not consent for my heart to be marked. It was like tripping over a branch as a child, bearing the scars of my fall, and to then tell the story grander as if it were a great feat to overcome. I do not bear these scars after overcoming a battle; returning with glory. I do not tell my tales and make them large. They are small, squished down—punched until they fit into my hand, like they have done to mark my heart. My heart bears not the scars of a hero. Inside, I am ashamed. A coward.