I was born with a name
like a seed dropped in soil I didn’t plant.
It grew in a garden others tended, spoken by strangers,
tied to a past I didn’t write.
Birth names.
The ones that took me through my school years,
that fall from the lips of teachers,
that live in birthday cards from relatives
who mean well,
but don’t know how much I’ve buried
Just to breathe.
I smiled when they called it,
until I couldn't anymore.
Maiden names.
Names before the vows,
before the love that changed me,
before the signatures and
Mrs pressed onto letters.
That name held a girl
who was trying so hard
to find what woman meant.
Some names are stepping stones.
Some are bandages.
Some are armor.
Some are prayers.
Old names
Say them and the air stiffens.
Say them and watch the room forget
everything I fought for.
Say them and you raise ghosts I’ve already grieved.
But don’t get it twisted
it wasn’t death,
it was escape.
I cut that name loose, dropped it like an anchor.
Not because I hate the ocean it dragged me through,
but because I finally learned
how to swim to shore.
This name, it fits.
It sings.
It lives.
And so do I.
With my new name.
Evie Roane.