Who are we really? What, you don’t think those are our real names?
Who the fuck are you to say that? There is such a thing as deed poll mother-lovers.
What is a ‘real name’ anyway? the ones our parents gave us when we were just out of the womb space? just clear of the vagina? squishy faced, covered in blood and mucus and with no descernable personality? Back when we were only just figuring out how to breathe and wondering why the world was cold on our skin and the lights were so fucking bright? back then?????? I don’t think that counts.
There are the names of our birth, childhood and adolescence, even the names of our adulthood. But the last names, are the names of our fathers, given by default and faulty, especially when you are a woman trying to find her story. The first names echo with bullies sneering voices and parental reprimands, lovers soft whispers and friends calling out. But not with the truth of our being, not with soulful meaning. Only a tag so others can identify us. A sound so we can be turned around on a busy street.
A name by any other rose is just as sweet.