Hello, My Name Is

I have been told

That there is no word

To describe me.

Some might call that a compliment,

And so do I –

Except that I have been told

That the number of contradictions

In my personality

Are in the triple digits,

That the square root of many

Of my flaws can be found

In personal issues and torn-up poetry.

I can hear your arguments building

In the crooks of your elbows,

Building up behind your ears

Where you think I won’t see them,

Tucked into back body corners

Or old tattered jean pockets

And taking refuge in foreign languages

You don’t know that I speak –

There is no word on your lazy tongue

To describe who I am,

Besides “lonely”.

Or “afraid”.

“Desperate”.

“Attention-whore”.

Since you seem at a loss for descriptors,

Let me tell you what my name really is.

My name is Brave,

The wooden sword triumphant in the hand

Of the last miniature crusader to hold you

At stick point on the playground.

My name is carved onto each centimeter

Of your attention-span’s short life-lines,

Like the initials of the last man

To name me “The One”

That still shine shameful on that oak tree

In my backyard of relationship mistakes.

Hello, I am the glowing bloom

Of newfound confusion

Between your eyebrows –

I see the way you size up my passion,

Lashing out at me with your

Unspeaking tongue and screaming eyes!

I dare you to come at me

With your meager attempts at flattery –

Honey, there isn’t enough vocabulary

To cover up for your pageantry of perfection’s

Eager clippings, trimmings,

Social pruning –

I am the last dead rose to fall.

My name is Cacophony,

Because obviously I never did master silence,

You see –

I am the bloody sonic boom

That greets you

From the mouth of the last lion

You ever see,

that ever told you no.

My name is Triumphant,

Emblazoned on brazen sexuality

With intricate embroidery,

Carved ribcage staircase

That you climb like each thread

In a doormat –

My name is Walking Homeless Shelter,

Pouring marrow soup

From every pore in my bones –

Drink from me,

Give me purpose!

My name is That Girl

That hides inside her own cavernous quiet

That has a story too

But you’re so busy talking about her

Over tater tots and miserable lots

You don’t talk to her

Despite the fact that maybe,

Just maybe,

Knowing her name might save her.

I have always had a name.

My name is Mystery.

Now who the Hell are you?