They tell me what my name is
A pretty thing
A lovely thing
But I would rather be handsome than pretty
Strong rather than gorgeous
Ken rather than Barbie
In this poem I am no longer teetering between shy boy and unhappy girl
In this poem I am no longer tightroping between being a miracle and being a coincidence
And in the silence of my heart I know what my name is
It used to be a vial of poison handed to me on a silver platter
A word seared into my broken shoulders
A prison called beautiful
Unique
Exotic
But in the battleground between shadows and hearts
I know what it really is
My name is not supposed to feel like oncoming traffic
It is not supposed to remind me of Judgement Day
My name is not decided by the boy who brands me a freak
A walking casket
My name is not decided by the black ink on a page typed thirteen years ago
My name is not some sort of creature cobbled together by unsteady hands in a broken-down factory
The people who named me
Had no idea what a boy like me was supposed to look like
So they hoped this traitorous label of mine would act like glue
Holding together the rotten leaves that are a pitiful excuse for a heart
But all it has done
Is turn me into a house built of splintered boards and shattered windows
But when your house is broken you do not abandon it
You fix it up
Make it good enough to invite guests over
Make the floorboards strong enough to stand on
No, my name is not a fading thing
My name will not be a ghost with a pulse
My name will not be the iron sitting on my shoulders
My name will not be some collapsing barbed-wire fence that I am too afraid to tear down
My name will be a mansion, a grand, glass-stained cathedral
My name will be the final courageous soldier in a half-dead legion
My name will be a testament to the sadness I nearly died fighting
My name will be my name
My name does not belong to the "unwashed masses" anymore
With their tired nine to five hands and titanium hearts
No
My name will be
My name