I spent my whole life contemplating a name for myself.
I was called all kinds of things:
Puta.
Hija.
Hermana.
Fat.
Ugly.
Whore.
Worthless.
Beautiful.
Angel.
Holy.
I answered to them all,
mostly because
I never wanted to get lost.
Recognition was vital,
blood—
I’d lose pints of it monthly,
I had to replenish
In my more generous years,
when I needed concert tickets or a free pass to the museum—
I’d give my blood to whatever mobile clinic took it,
iron-deficient, still, not denied—
New Years of 2014—
numb & nauseous—
a half raw steak in my mouth
I almost forgot my name
…but I heard it as I faded into the festivities,
Ingrid
Ingrid
Ingrid
“please,
this year has left me so tired,
/vacant
/bare
/devoid of
/bankrupt
please,
just say goodnight
forget my name…
/let me sleep into the new year—“
