Identity

I liked my middle name better than my first.
When people said my first name, it was as if
all the darkness in the world was shot out
at me through those three syllables.
I hated the roundness of it
marred only by the buzzing "z" sound
interrupting my thoughts, trapping my attention
whenever it was spoken.
Compared to that, my middle name was a blessing.
Over the years,
I heard a variety of accents roll over
its vowels, each reincarnation sculpting
the weight of it in my mind.
I changed again and again, but 
my name never stretched beyond its letters.
So the one thing that I trusted
beyond any sound or shape that might otherwise
have defined me
was the presence of me, nameless,
alone at odd moments in the spotty sunlight
of my days,
in the places where everyone all at once
knew
who I was.