My name has always felt wrong –
like a left shoe on a right foot,
I could get by with it
but it is never really comfortable.
My parents always had daft little nicknames for me;
cuddlebug, loopiloo, ratbag.
My classmates always had insults;
freak, lesbian on crutches.
My lovers had pet names;
honey, dove, twinkle bear.

Only one person really called me by name,
and he only ever used it
as a warning –
“you’re really testing me now”
or alongside blows to the face, ribs, stomach…
to make me believe
I brought it upon myself.
My name became
molten lava burning down my throat
and my skin would crawl with spiders
and my lungs would fill with a thousand wasps
and my nails would dig into the palms of my hands
until I drew blood
to keep me grounded
against the swarms.

My name gets more of a flinch from me
than the sharp raise of a hand
or a change in tone of a voice
or a dropped smile.
Four letters and the panic
races up to my brain
and I shake and sweat
and I bite my lip
and I hold back tears and nausea.

You stole my name from me
and turned it against me
but I will keep fighting your memory
and I will take my name back
and I will make it fit me just right.

– for younger me. you’re a brave kid.