My Name

Hattie. The venturing into a new world. A soft whisper from exhausted lips that had consumed 3 too many shots. A moment of sentiment, from a mother, who was only so for a second. My name, Hattie, is warped. Twisted like the stories of the gods. It is a storm, raging beneath a calm facade. A story, that time will bury underneath the sands it holds so dear. My name is forgettable. My name is loud. But my name is not who I am. Only who I wish to be. It means power.

Brook. A series of letters. Something to be proud of because that is all it is. It does not attach me to a past I do not want or a future I cannot understand. Brook is calm, Brook is known, Brook is loved. Brook is who I am. Brook is where I am comfortable, it is where I am needed. Brook is where I’ve dwelt, where I’ve been frozen too, where I’ve been pushed from. But it will be where I remain until I can leave the past behind, and figure out my future. I fear I will be here forever.

Murdock. A name I’ve never known. A scorn. A single tie, binding me to a past I cannot seem to leave behind. But it is also a seal. A word holding me to a sea the scottish swear I am to protect. But in my life, Murdock will always sting my hands, my tongue, my eyes, every time it is used. I am not Murdock. But the word binds.

My name is not me. I run from it. I run towards it. But I know it will always catch me.