I am too big for my name.
I shed it,
a snake breaking free of skin grown too tight.

Like a child’s dress I outgrew
words like “girl,”
“daughter.”
They chafe at me,
they break at the seams.

I’m told my bigness is too much,
I must be small
I must be pretty
I must bleed for someone else

—

The sea, too, strains against the shore.
Does she, like me,
feel that her name is too small?