My name is Phin.
Just Phin.
P-H-I-N.
It wasn't always my name. 
But before it was, I didn't have one.
I didn't have a name, 
I had a time bomb tied to me at birth in the form of syllibals, of letters,
I had a personal slur in which I had to speak,
And hear, 
And bind to myself in the the form of writing 
And introduction. 
I didn't have a name,
But a barbed wire snake
Sleeping in the back of my throat, 
Awake at a young age
But growing with me,
Sparking more thorns and quicker to snap
The longer the word given to me was used.
The syllibals were feminine, a red flag to my differences when I spoke it,
Yet over the years it held with it
The pits of toxic masculinity,
The need to contrast and to contradict
The prison of letters 
That would become the definition
Of accidental abuse
To anything feminine,
In desperate attempts to be seen as anything but.
I didn't have a name,
But an anchor that would grow heavier
Year to year,
Use to use,
Letters tied to someone only other people saw. 
But now, I'm Phin.
Just Phin.
It's not a nickname, nor is it lesser just because I chose it.
I chose it, so it's mine.
It's not my parents' name.
It's not society's name.
It's me.
Just Phin.