The Name I Became

Mira instead of Maria.

Two letters and I was someone new,

someone the name would make me be.

The safety pin bit into my collarbone—

a small constant hurt I kept forgetting,

then remembering, then letting go.

By the time I saw myself in the mirror,

I'd started to answer to it.

A customer called me Mira.

I didn't correct her.

I let the error become my skin,

let the mistake settle where my name should be.

It was easier, maybe,

to be renamed by accident

than to spend the day explaining

who I actually was.

The pin left a small red mark

that will stay for days—

proof that I was willing

to let someone else's slip

become my identity,

to wear the wrong name

like it fit me better

than my own.

I wonder if the real Maria

would have done the same,

or if she would have corrected them

every single time.