Every Name They Gave You

​

First, gather every name they gave you

that felt like rope. Knot them inside

your throat. Steal matches & gasoline

from the kitchen. Ignore the labels

that say: for adults only. Build a pyre

from old uniforms, diplomas, toys,

photo albums, closet doors. Stack them

carefully. Facing up. Create a circle

& salt it with all your unspoken shame.

Lay down more offerings: a jockstrap,

a poem, a bottle of gin with one lipstick

kiss on the rim. Place your photograph.

The one taken before you learned how to

feel good about lying. Let it face the wind.

Write the prayer they never taught you.

Make it sound like a sad serenade,

then scream. Light it with your left hand.

The hand they taught you not to use.

Do not look away. Even when they cry.

Dance in circles until the heat feels

like remembering your first time

getting hurt from playing with fire.

When the neighbors ask what's burning,

say: only what no longer belongs to me.

Let the ashes know they’re free.

Let the smoke tell every ancestor

that you found a better mythology.

When the wind shifts & your clothes

still smell like fire, do not wash them.

That scent is survival. Sacred. Safe.