She was a name.
A single compilation from 26 letters
into a single meaning,
a single girl.

She was a name
that survived on the tip of her pen
in the loose pages of her triple-ringed journal.
The word was her identity.

She was a name
at the beginning of a sentence.
Choked from the mouths of her peers
and drowned in the spit of her enemies.

She was a name
at the end of a sentence.

She was a name
like the other billion around her,
like the billion before her,
and the billion after.

She wondered why she gave herself her name.
Why she even had a name.
If she could trade it for a much more pleasant name.
How to spell it.

And what it meant.

She wondered why she was a name.
Not a girl,
but just a name.