If you were to ask me what my name is, I would hesitate.
I would hesitate for I know not how to respond.
My name is not of my own, but a faded thing, like a memory or a dream.
A memory of who I used to be, or rather, who I never was, who everyone else dreamed me to be.
I am not my name.
I am not something to rely on when things go wrong.
I am not the things forced within a heart.
I am not the thing that keeps most breathing.
I am not Hope.