My old name is dead to me.
That's why they call it a deadname.
The person who had that name breathes no more.
She was killed by my own hands.
She was named for both of her grandmothers,
some sort of sentiment to come from a careless mistake.
Maybe this is what made it so easy for me to **** her
because her name was a throw-away.
Her middle name came from the title of a movie
that her parents had once liked.
But the movie is old and bland, and the plot has no meaning.
So her names are futile attempts at trying to right a wrong,
trying to make up for something that can never be fixed.
I killed her.
I wanted her dead so badly,
so I killed her.
My name is Casey.
I am not heartless, though.
She wanted me to be Casey.
Although I killed her, she still means something to me.
I had to **** her in order to move on.
She knew that.
So I am Casey for her.
Casey.
It means spear.
A weapon.
Fitting for a murderer.
Our prompt was to write a response to "My Name" by Sandra Cisneros. I took a slightly different approach and wrote about my deadname.
