Inked in Silence

A faded paper curls between my fingers,

the name inked deep,

a story whispered in the hush.

My mother’s voice breaks the quiet,

soft as a sigh, telling me why

she chose that weight for me.

A name lifted from a worn book,

a borrowed hope folded in their breath,

a shadow stretching behind my own.

I trace the letters, edges curling,

feel the pull of a choice not mine,

and wonder how it shapes the shape

of who I almost was.

Not just a name—

a claim, a tether,

carved in ink and silence.