Alias

I found the plastic badge inside a box,

beside a pair of mismatched, work-day socks.

The metal clip still holds a jagged thread

from the blue shirt I wore until it bled

at the collar where the starch was much too tight.

I wore that name through every shift and fight.

Now it’s a sticker on the hallway floor,

a yellowed ghost of what I was before.

The glue is stubborn, clinging to the weave,

a lie I told and wanted to believe.

It’s hard to peel the layers back to bone

when every name you’ve had was just a loan.