My name encompasses the forgotten parts of me,
It remembers me when I don't.
My name is not associated with the shrieks and laughter,
Instead it helps me associate with my own core,
Reminding me of what I am,
Of the silence I speak.
It holds the veil of something unseen,
Of something felt when stumbled upon
But still not believed in.
My name may give me a reason to be like everyone else,
But what lurks behind it also gives me a reason to run.
It chases me wherever I go,
Unrelenting and enduring.
It brings the welcomed stillness but also the unruly reality.
Even it cannot conceal nor explain the enigma of my existence.
To those brushing by, it is simply an identity.
To those that may be acquainted with it may see more,
The flipping of pages and ink smudges.
They may hear further,
The ringing notes.
Yet they still may not grasp the solitude of my name clutches,
The abandoned dreams it possesses.
The label that I have,
It is the deception, not me.
The letters are a constant load,
One that I have been,
And forever may be holding in my hand.
I don't think they realize how hard it is to be one-handed though.
A refinement of what captures me is embraced,
Andromeda or Scarlett imaginably.
Andromeda so I may sing and shine like nothing else,
Scarlett to match my tears.