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Message from Writer


When Nobody's Looking.

April 9, 2020

My name is twenty-four letters that will never be pronounced the same way. 

It is a promise that I haven't been able to fulfill.

It's the secret that my great-grandmother hid for almost a century.

It's carved on the wanderer sword she left at the end of her trip. 

It is the cacophony of the noises that have seen it grow.

The thunderous symphony of narrow streets, tianguis, sparrows and patrols.

The murmurs of my grandmother when praying and when crunching bay leaves.

My name is pronounced as

                               Where do you come from?

But if you speak it with an accent, it's a

                             Could you repeat it, miss?

And when it is lost, it turns into any lullaby you could summon.

When you already know it well, you don't even pronounce it. 

My name is gaudy, seen through sepia lenses, and rhymes with arrebol.

My name is sheathed by the votes of my parents.

Tied together by a gold chain and baby blue lace. 

It ran away from war and hid in a ghost town.

My name doesn't even belong to me.

Its owners are luck, the dust of the road and all silences.

It came from five ports, was born on an autumn morning.

But as long as I can use it, I'll wear it in silver earrings.

I will turn it into a flag of freedom.

I will stain it with pride, tears, and soliloquies.

And when it decides to leave, it will have to bite its way out of my hands.

My name is more than a name, it is more than me, and it is more than itself.

But while I use it, my name is pure coincidence.


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  • April 9, 2020 - 6:02pm (Now Viewing)

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