there’s a concept dating back centuries, kept alive through stories and legends: names have power. to name yourself is to give a being power over you, to trust them not to destroy you. to name another is to give them a gift, or a curse, depending on your choice.
for seven years now i’ve held my mouth shut. i refused to speak for fear that, by naming the evil, i would invite it back to me as i tried to shoo it out. i followed the lead of the people i trusted, who said that this word was bad, that this word was cursed, that i shouldn’t let it fall from my lips.
listen: i’m naming it now. i’m naming the smoke in my chest for the way it suffocates me, i’m naming the way it weighs heavy enough in my chest to crush my heart. i’m naming it because goddamnit, i’ve lived it, and i’m still here - if i have no other reward to show for it, i want the power to call it by name. i’m not inviting it back, and i never was. when i use its name, i’m forcing it out of me with a spoken command: you don’t get to own me.
