The name I write when I'm small

They handed me the form to sign

and I could see the line

where yes becomes no,

where I have to show

I understand things

I don't,

boxes I can't

refuse.

My pen touched paper

and I became a stranger,

my hand went small,

my signature began to fall

into a shape

that wasn't mine,

that didn't align

with how I write

when I'm not afraid.

It was the handwriting

of someone slight,

someone trying to get it right,

someone choosing

to disappear

into the boxes.

I looked at what I'd made

and felt afraid,

that signature,

that small feature

of myself,

now official,

now the thing

that says I agreed,

that I succeeded

in becoming

someone else.

The nurse took it.

Didn't hesitate.

I was filed away,

and that was the day

my name became

a permanent mark

against my own future.