I don’t like my name
not this one, the one I stole
from a great grandmother
I never met
the one I stole from
an Irish goddess
because hiding behind the roots
that aren’t really mine
is better than admitting
my real name
my real name
that my mom yells
when she’s mad
that is yelled
screamed
condescended
my real name
six syllables of anger
that shocks me
when anyone else
says it
my real name
------
they call out
and I jolt at the sound
of a name
I know as my own
but is as unfamiliar
as a stranger’s
this name I’ve chosen
six syllables of fake
is safer than my real one
a name that isn't mine
until i decided
that invisibility
anonymity
is better than being known
by a name
I don’t like
I love my name
-theoretically-
beautiful, pretty
delicate as a flower
but not a shield
like this one
no barrier between
the character
and the creator
I like my name
the way those characters
whose names are sacred
like their names
for the select few only
for the rest
I am an author and nothing more
an Irish name on a page
with ‘by’ situated in front
and nothing behind it
at all
no past, just a present
and a future
and nothing to tie to it
not even a face
no regret
only ink
only words
never a person writing them
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