I wonder if my name is a wound that won’t heal. I wonder if every time it gets brought up, you try to sew it back together with the remaining threads of whatever mess this was.
It’s not against the rules to take the name of a male saint. Even nuns do it when entering an order if they feel particularly drawn to a certain saint, or their work. No, it’s not against the rules, but it is also not the ideal choice for a twelve year-old girl trying to blend in with the Limited Too crowd.
Sure, I may remember the names of everyone else I slept with and I might even know the general ballpark of their birthdays, but for the most part, I didn’t know them in a way that I know my closest friends. It now seems easier to open your legs for someone than cry on their shoulder in a cab.
She was never embarrassed to say your name or to hold your hand in public. She was never unsure of where she stood because the answer was always, “Right next to him.”
All the biggest names coming out to play–Miley, JT, Lorde, and many other people that I enjoy pretending to know on a first name basis.
When I stopped frowning seeing the alphabet of your first name appeared in any sudden thin air, or your last name on a Chinese restaurant’s receipt, similar to the cashier’s, or the waiter’s.
In this day and age, coming up with a unique, catchy username is harder than ever.
You don’t know my name. But I know your heart. I know that it beats to offset my laughter.