My Name
My name feels heavier this time.
I never thought names could be read, and I never thought they could carry weight, but they do.
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Names aren’t born heavy. They grow dense with meaning, layered by every voice that calls them, by the way the air folds around each syllable.
Even the ghost that whispers it by my bed adds another thread to its weight.
It isn’t the number of times it’s spoken that makes it so,
but how much of me people imagine when they say it.
My name was never pretty.
It’s strange, uneven, and doesn’t roll off the tongue easily.
But it’s long, unique, and mine
Now when I say it aloud,
it feels like casting a spell.
Still now, its meaning multiplying,
like the earth itself — blue and green,
thin and endless,
like a pulse of consciousness
just before it drifts to sleep.
