The Wrong Key, Or, My Name, Mispronounced

"Oh, [My Name]," she said,

and her lips, they barely moved.

Just the edges, a tight curve,

a small, sharp sound, unproved

by any actual warmth.

My own name. A stranger,

suddenly, in her mouth,

a kind of subtle danger.

The back of my neck went hot,

a sudden, stinging flush.

Like she'd reached in,

through the meeting's hush,

and touched something I keep

so private, so deep.

My name. Not 'you,' not 'her.'

But my name. It made me weep,

almost. A dry, tight ache.

A violation, small and clean.

Like she'd found the wrong key,

and tried to force the scene.

And it fit.

The sound of it,

still buzzing in my ears,

a low-grade hum,

a thousand tiny fears

of being seen,

but not truly known.

Just a sound.

Not me.

A seed, harshly sown.