If I asked you for your name,
would you hand me your birth certificate,
finger and footprints inked in your first breath,
in a manila folder?
Would you hand me your diploma,
edges slightly torn,
creases bending your first, middle, and last name?
Would you point to a pile of bills marked past due?
Or would you look me in the eyes,
reflection staring back at you and show me.
Show me the map that led you to where you are,
lend me the book who's stories inspired you,
whisper the words that charmed you.
When I ask you for your name,
I hope your frigid hand cracks and I see the morning dew
upon your skin, your soul touching your lips,
your lips kissing the passions hidden in your colorblind eyes.
Eyes that see the shades of grey literature resides.
When someone asks you for your name,
hand them the birthday cards signed, "thank you for always being there,"
the rough drafts marked in red ink and the final glazed in gold.
Hand them the photographs, the memories.
When someone asks you for your name,
paint them a picture of the nights you didn't sleep,
the days you didn't eat.
Tell them you are not two or three words on a diploma
but a dictionary with 2000 definitions.
When they ask you for your name,
look them in the eyes,
your reflection staring back at you,
And ask them,
Which one?