My name is a box

It is easier to know me by six letters,
to confine all that I am to six letters –

My name was not with me when I cowered in the corner of a dank kitchen, dishes in the sink and the water faucet dripping. I was “bitch,” “stupid,” “fucker,” hands over my head as the blows came from above, heart in my mouth as the tears drowned my sorrow.

My name was not with me in tenth grade sociology when a note from my friend termed me “worthless,” declared my entire existence a stain on society because I struggled with happiness.

My name was not with me when my first boyfriend asked to kiss me in a text message while his father drove me home, it was not there when he broke up with me because I was too hesitant and told him no.

My name was not with me when my father sat before me saying he’d rather die, when his anger sent his fists flailing against the steering wheel and I sat with my sisters, nothing.

My name was not with me when I first kissed my girlfriend, nor when I lost all of my friends because of it. They took it from me, drug it through the mud and handed it back dirty, hoping to make me hate myself.

Though I answer to the six letters I’ve had all my life, I am not my name.

I am more.

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My name is a box

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