That year I forgot the sound of my name
could barely make out the shape of it
curves once smooth turned sharp
found myself repeating old habits
falling back into familiar like so many second thoughts
holding myself to my ears
hearing the ocean
longing for home
that name I forgot a siren song lulling me
into crash and sink
it began that name with tongue pressed to teeth.
That same year I became somebody's wife,
somebody else's mother
didn't recognize either of them
strangers teeming beneath my skin
impostors in the mirror wearing my eyes
complacent in my undertow
shredding what was left of the remnants
and still I answered ever time I heard that name.
That thunder clap and banshee scream
that who I used to be
before I forgot her name.
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