Naming Makes You Real

You kissed me and it hurt 
but I was supposed to smile and thank you
and keep the bruises hidden like they were a defect 
because hurting me was too much entertainment to stop only because of my tender skin
with shameful names assigned at random and words like weapons
like stones thrown at a target who had nowhere to move
it was so easy to convince me I was wrong for doing none of the things you accused me of
 but I found myself guilty 
and sentenced to hard solitary
it was easier to be with the friends who were invisible
because they never asked the hard questions
and when you left with her
it never occurred to me that it wasn’t my fault…
I understand why you have to say your name in AA
it means something when you say who you are
naming  makes you real
the words spoken take shape and draw first breath as they leave yours
I should practice saying my name into the wind
saying it until it fits in my mouth instead of spitting it out awkwardly
I should practice having a conversation without flinching
try not to worry what expression my face should be modeling
and if I can ever let myself care
because it’s so hard to re-learn feeling when
your soft heart has been triple wrapped in brown paper and packed away
and the tears I wouldn’t cry
have hardened like sap into amber
but maybe that’s all that holding the jagged edges together
and my spaces would be so empty without the discarded pieces 
and counterfeit promises 
and the map to the places my mind hid my secret longing 
for something else
something far away,
stuffed like newspapers to stop the drafts in an old house
 the box I just dragged out to the curb with the trash
couldn’t possibly hold it all 
But I know whats real now
and I know my name
and one day soon
I will claim it


About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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