she asked me who i was.
i answered with my name.
the name given to me
the day i first breath,
the day my screams tore down
a white envelope.
the one i always responded to.
the name my lovers whispered.
the name which defines me
and only me. i curse my name.
why must it be so sour?
why does my name
- no other one, just mine –
taste so much like cyanide?
why must it scrape my throat, pierce my tongue
and poison my yarn?
when i utter it, i'm a liar.
but if i don't, who am i?
