I am The Victim,
My arms dainty and my legs useless, 
I sit on my bed with my hand fanned over my face, 
Mouth agape and ready to scream for help. 

I am The Vulnerable,
My stomach is tiny, my throat is harsh from so much preparation,
You have not yet come, but you will,
And when you do, I will be ever so grateful. I think.

I am The Damsel,
A thousand miles up in the air in my tower,
In my cage up in the sky with my curtains pulling themselves outward,
And, not surprisingly, the lack of your breath blowing them in again. 

I am The Impatient,
Questioning the tally marks on my walls and bored of scripting your arrival,
I begin to sharpen my pencil that used to draw hearts around your name, 
With a new purpose: war.

I am The Hunter,
My arms strong and my legs even stronger,
I crouch at the windowsill with my graphite-spears poised
To strike at the sound of hooves on gravel.