It doesn't fit me.
He who is crowned in Laurels. In the days when mortal men paid homage to deities the likes of Zeus and Athena, they gave this honor to the ones who were the fastest. Strongest. Who could throw further than the rest. Jump highest. Unto them, was conferred the sign of victory. And when the Greeks were conquered, the tradition was brought over as well- as a sign of victory in battle; the conquering of enemies.
It's a little odd- I don't feel much like a victor these days. I'm not yet winning wars, much less the ones within myself and the ones around me. I'm certainly not the best, either.
I named myself after the Guardian of Treasures. He was a man of faith, as an Archdeacon he was ordained. He was a brave, brave man. Heroic, even. Story goes that he presented to the Roman Prefect the poor, blind, and the crippled instead when he was demanded to surrender all the riches of the Church. He told him, in a classic cheeky fashion, "The Church is truly rich, far richer than your emperor." Laughing at death, telling him "It is well done. Turn me over!"
I wish I had courage like that.
There's a certain gravity that goes along when you say it. Lawrence. It has a tone of might, doesn't it? Powerful, yet not quite oppressive. They tell me it's a strong, powerful name, like the ones who lead the charge into glorious battle. But then I wonder if I've done the name a great disservice by sealing myself in it. The saint whom I named myself after laughed at being smothered in fiery coals, but I am not so brave.
It sits upon my shoulders. The oppressive weight of responsibility; to live up to my name. To be mighty and brave, to be a victor. To live the name I so clearly don't deserve.
It's absolutely terrifying.
This was written as an assignment, my own version of "my name" by Sandra Cisneros. It's supposed to be freestyle poetry, but however the hell this is poetry is beyond me.