My name
They told me not to talk so much, not to dream so much,
they told me,
to take the ocean that moves inside my ribs, and to swallow it. To swallow it whole. They told me I could never make it. They told me I could never become of anything because I grew up in a grey house, instead of white, because my hands leave behind traces of purple, instead of blue.
When I touch the corners of my mouth I still feel their words sitting in between the chapped lines of my lips, when I brush my hair and a strand winds around my fingertips and falls down to the dirty floor I can still feel the sting in the back of their throats as their voices shot fire at me.
I left all these people where I first met them, but people are shadows that bury into your skin,
I’ve tried so hard to forget your names
but they still sleep in the crook of my neck,
and every time I feel sorry for myself I hear them shouting my name;
never had a name sounded so heavy. Never has my name been so hard to hear.
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