My name was never supposed to be my name, swapped in at the last moment,
unknown if it would stick, it must’ve felt like sweaty fingers on dry parchment paper.
It’s haunted my mind more than I care to admit. Was I supposed to be this way?
Would my grandfather be proud if I had his name? Would I be the same person if only my
name wasn’t exchanged, or a single letter was switched? Would I have been writing this project,
feeling these feelings and expressing myself this way if my name didn’t hold the meaning it does?

My name means nothing and everything to me at the same time,
no matter how much I wish to rid of its label,
it will always look like me,
and I will miss how it will always remind me of me.

Fin.