16 April 2014 "Imported Ingredients"

I hate my name,

though my mother gave it to me

for my birthday.

I hate it because it isn’t mine.

It isn’t like the stars,

it cannot stretch like they can.

My name sounds exactly the same

no matter who points to it.

I want to feel like

my body is more than just

imported ingredients:

something taken from

something else,

my name yet another addition

to the list of

what I do not own.

And God,

I just want to hear

my name

and I don’t want to turn around

expectantly

every single time.