You Don’t Get to Use My Name

You don’t get to use my name.  Who are you to me anymore?

You left and put distance where there was closeness.  You made space where we had been intertwined  together.

So, who are you to use that name of mine?  You are already gone. You’ve moved on.  There is no us.  There isn’t we hope, we try, we  go, we enjoy, or we together.  There is me.  There is myself now.  There is memory where there once was you.

So don’t be familiar and use my name.  You don’t know me anymore.  That woman before who was with you: she is dead.  There is no resurrection and there is nothing left of her for you to use her name when you talk to me.

My name is my own.  Friends use it. Co-workers use it. Family use it. Acquaintances and lovers and sales clerks and new relationships use that name.  But not you; you lost that right already.  You don’t know me anymore.  You made yourself nothing to me by making me nothing to you.

And nothing can’t call out my name. Nothing can’t even speak.  So, I can’t hear those collection of sounds from you.

After all, those sounds used to be intimate. My name spoken by you. It used to be something beautiful. Why pretend that intimacy exists anymore? You severed that connection willfully. It was your decision. Am I even person enough to you to be called by a name?

My name is special. I am going to protect it from now on.  You don’t get to use my name. Not anymore.