You could have been happy there, in a space of history. You overlooked the less than infrequent transgressions, because he knew your name. But names have a way of defining a person, an object, and a space. And when he suddenly changed your name to , you believed him. The feeling of devotion, living, caring, and existing all boiled down to that one name.

 He flung it at you, stuck in your back with knives you couldn’t bear to remove because they hurt less than knowing he believed it too. You wore your name for the world to see.

Do you see her? She’s a , and she doesn’t even know why.

When the name refused to stick, he’d punctuate it with holes in walls, and fists raised – never lowered – dark purple bruises and wild eyes. You’d sit quietly, his on the shelf. Simply accepting this punishment as if you deserved it. As if it was yours to take.

You wondered how long you would need to be before you could be ‘You’ again. How many years before you would know and feel like ‘You’ again. As you waited in humble acceptance, the wondering suddenly grew more painful than the name. So you decided to get off his shelf, because it was lined with broken promises and shattered dreams, cutting to your core…He spoke your name one last time as you limped away.

.

You used to be stronger than this. You miss having control…
And I say “You”, but I mean“I”. 
And I never used to flinch when I heard the word .