The Name I Wore

That cracked plastic badge —

its edges splintered like my memory,

a night folded wrong

and stuffed into a jacket pocket.

I caught my reflection,

a stranger's name clipped to my chest,

a claim I never asked for,

clinging like dead skin.

The clip hung loose,

a wounded limb swinging

against the rhythm

of a face I barely own.

Who am I when the name

slides off, cracking,

a promise broken before morning?