My name is not my own. 

My lips do not form the word naturally as they do the ones around me. 

I do not hold and cherish it like the names of the ones I love. 

My name does not sit comfortably in my mouth or in my mind. It rattles, clanks like a tin can. Hard, cold. Clunky, bulky in all the wrong places. The consonants are ugly, stiff and the singular vowel is in its worst form.

My name is not elegant like Alexandra or Madison. Letters that float like ballerinas, twirling in the clouds.

My name is like a rock sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool. Stuck. 

The only thing to do, look up at the sunshine piercing through the surface.

My name is not my own.

It is my mother’s, choosing it out of spite.

It is my father’s, always said with a ping of disappointment. 

It is my brother’s, yelled at me in cars, hurled at me like knives intertwined with barbed wire. 

It is my sister’s, laughing at my mistakes. 

It is my grandma’s, written on notes detailed with diets. Sent with love.

My name is not my own.

The letters are pastel pink, yellow, and blue.

I hate these colors. Especially together.

They are Easter mornings in church, a marshmallow in a puffy pink dress, clawing my tights, picking at my Mary Janes. Forced to sit still in a hostile, forest green chair, staring at the ceiling, tuning out old people that can’t find the pitch singing their hymns.

They are candy hearts on Valentine's Day, the chalky texture, and the cardboard smell. I have never had someone ask “Be Mine?” or “Would you be My Valentine?”

My name has never flustered the butterflies in someone's stomach.

My name has never been written on the inside of a love letter or swung on a chain around someone's neck.

My name is lonely and immature

My name is my friend’s. 

Mixed and matched in all types of ways, playfully called whenever needed.

They call me a picnic on a green checkered blanket, the bees buzzing in the daffodils, the gentle sun turning the world golden.

They call me a cool summer night, sitting by the lake, lights glistening on the water. The moon smiling at her reflection. 

They call me the moon. Calm and collected, the one who connects the sun, earth, and stars. 

They call me a fire pit, warm and bright. Spitting ashes to the left and right, stubborn and wild.

My name is mine.

My name is the little one who was scared of the witch in her closet, cowering under her blanket, too prideful to cry for Mom.

My name is the 7th grader who laughed too hard at the dumb joke made by an acne-riddled boy in her Spanish class. She is red-faced, chubby-cheeked, and searching for validation.

My name is the 17 year old girl who is scared to grow up. Scared to leave the only world she has ever known.

Stuck. 

At the bottom of a swimming pool, holding her breath. 

Until, one day, she feels her feet pushing off from the floor.

And she is reaching for the sun.

My name is my future, the woman who I will grow to be. 

The woman who has forgiven herself for her past mistakes and bloomed to love the world. 

She is intelligent and confident and radiant when she walks.

She is the woman who has learned to swim.

The woman who has found herself in her name.

C. Diana Jeanne