my name is too soft. it reads like

poetry, like blue, cursive words

leaking from shaky fountain pens.

like rain, lulling the sky to sleep.

my name tastes like vanilla ice

cream on my lips – like milk and

sugar and nothing else.

I want my name to be strong,

like concrete. steadfast. I want

my name to feel like pages torn out

from a dictionary and lace-up boots

stained with life. I want my name

to smell like leather jackets and

hairspray – high heels shuffling on

wooden floorboards and the feeling

of rapture slipped in between the

shadows of early morning, but –

(someone from summer camp said

that my soul is the color pink, and)

my name is soft, like cotton. like

the humming wind. like wildflowers

dotting the landscape, stretching the

sky from north to south. my name is

too much like me, (a girl with nothing

but words clinging onto her fingers,

her heart intertwined with everything).

so I am not strong like thunder,

but strong like speaking.

my name is too soft. it reads like lines

of literature, squeezed in between the

sinews of life. like the steady clicking

of bicycle gears before shifting pedals.

I want my name to split the sky into

two like lightning, but my name is like

sunshine. like smiling. like the poetry

I write in my palms to feel strong.