I am a fucking warrior. A survivor. I have leaves in my hair, blood in my mouth, and holes in my clothes. I stand before you with a medal in my fist and more achievements to my name than most will earn in a lifetime. You FORGED ME. You left me out to die and I THRIVED.
And YOU. Have lost ALL CREDENCE in criticizing the state of me, of my scars, or my abilities.
Who are you? Loud aggressor, who not only haven't felt the fires I've walked through, but lit them, kindled them, and pushed me in?
You can't touch me.
I know who I am.
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