Still Have No Name

Last year you came,

shining like that nickel my uncle gave me.

You could have had anyone,

but you sat down by me.

Stupid old me,

who couldn’t be cool to save my life.

You would let me under your umbrella,

that shielded us from

hate,

tragedy,

despair.

I’d never had a name,

but you gave me one:

“friend”

you called me,

smiling.

I trusted you,

to be there when I needed you,

to give me a name,

a purpose.

And you were there,

but not really.

You’d hide in your raincoat,

pull up the hood.

I’d get wet,

despair,

you wouldn’t care.

The you left for good,

left me alone.

To cope,

without you.

No one to call me,

“friend”.

You left me,

nameless.

Guess what?

I still have no name.

But at least I don’t

cry over you,

when the nights are cold.

I don’t long for you,

when it rains hard.

I had a name, but you took it

away.

And hid behind your perfect image,

until there was nothing left.

But I didn’t need a name,

to be happy.

I moved on,

let you go.

I was proud of the

cool,

happy,

independent

me

that I’d become.

I no longer needed your umbrella.

I had my own.