All women wish for is one who is powerful enough to confront the sorrow and pain behind the mask we wear. To see us as we are: vulnerable, broken, lost...half of a whole.

We wish for a hero, a god of war, yet we hide behind our mask, our protection, our armor, our enemy.

Afraid. Isolated. Drenched in longing. Calling to them. Pushing them away.

They come. The heroes, the gods. They assault our walls with love, with passion, yet our mask remains...we cling to it...our security, our safety. Our prison.

We watch them walk away. Their swords shattered and their armor sundered and weep through our mask.

We have learned the pain of the past is stronger than the love of the present.

And this is the most brutal legacy of all. To have not only her past stolen. But her future.

And yet. The mask was her salvation. How can she let it go?

With love.

Not from another.

From herself.