My Name

Who I am is not my name.

It is not my age either, although 

sometimes when I see myself

in a mirror I forget that all the 

years that have passed, all 

the hopes and dreams, all the

hurt and anger, have been 

busy writing on my skin.  There 

are no words, only lines, but 

each one leads to another; they

have a tale to tell of who I am.

That name they gave me

that I have been called 

since my natal debut?  It was

never mine to choose, only 

mine to cloak myself with

and answer to.  I have other

dreams and ideas of the girl 

I really am. Sacred and holy

names that make up who 

I am, secrets whispered in 

dreams, wisps of identity

emerging at midnight

under starry skies, or dancing 
on the face of dappled water,
fragments of myself beyond
names and letters.  I have 
traced the lines on my face, 
followed them down my cheeks
and into the necklaces of
time that ring my chest, looking
for the realest me.  Each decade has
brought a letter to my name.
Each heartache, every joy,
all that has been my life now
comes together to shuffle and
to finally arise as My Name.