My Name

My name is Roma. It's short and seemingly simple although the meaning is not. Roma means Lakshmi, the Hindu goddess of wealth, power, luxury, and beauty. I am not Lakshmi. She is beautiful and strong, sitting in her lotus flower, and her spirit flourishes. We are not alike. The color red follows me around, with every choice I make, every person I meet, and every sentence I speak red follows me around. Roma, my name is red. It feels red, it sounds red, I see red. The redness that covers my cheeks when I am cold, follows me. Red sticks to me. My name is red like the red velvet curtains after a play with a disappointing score. I will never live up to my name. To be passionate and powerful like Lakshmi and beautiful like ruby red stones, is a glory I will never know. My name is violin strings being cut, and the cold holy water sprinkled on you at church. I love my name, I always have, it sounds so brave and authentic but the way I represent it is wasted beauty, and self-loathing. Each letter that follows is smooth and reminds me of marble countertops and the rich melodies of jazz. My name is conniving and overzealous yet no motivation follows, it screeches out begging for skill, begging for clarity, and an emotionless mind but I am tethered to a certain standard and amount of desperation I cannot reach over. My name is anger, passion, hatred, obsession, and romanticizing the tears that move slowly down my rosy red cheeks after I disappoint myself once again. My name is like the books in an old library that are falling apart, and the pages are waiting to be ripped off and thrown into a fire for kindling. The pages are stained with peppermint tea, and seen as waste even though the words were designed carefully and to convey macabre tales and nefarious playwrights. . How is it that such a wonderful name could belong to such a lost person? My name is rage-filled and unforgiving, it is angry and ugly like the red tomato sauce that spills on a dainty white dress, the ruiner. It stains, everywhere my name goes it leaves a stain or a scar, it's brutal and hurtful. My name is beautiful and like a red candle with its wax dripping down the sides, though it may seem dreamy and luxurious my name is vain and selfish, ready for the flames to burn you so you will never forget me. My name is like an anchor that keeps me grounded, so I don't get lost in my mind, and spend hours venturing new thoughts and perspectives, my name does not belong to me, I belong to my name. I wish my name was a reflection of myself and my heroine traits and characteristics, but it is not, instead it reminded me of what I should be and what I know I will never be. My name is everything I want to be and yet I am paralyzed and isolated with tremendous failure and pathetic hollows. Roma, what a pretty name for an ugly person, for someone who will never be enough, for someone who doesn't know who they are.