With a hundred words for us alone,
Nothing strikes me quite like hearing my name from your lips.
It lingers, heavy, in the space between us—
a sobering echo in the quiet of what we’ve become.
I’ve grown indulgent,
spoiled by the sweet nothings you whispered into my world,
and I’ve lost count of the moments
where those words made me feel whole.
That sound is the rooster’s crow,
heralding the breaking dawn of what’s unraveling —
the distance growing between us
Growing until you’ve become another face in the crowd,
one who knows my name, but not its meaning.
You’ve seen it all—
its origins, its purpose,
every translation of who I am.
And still, you choose to use it—
this name I despise,
the one that’s always felt like someone else’s imprint,
an identity I never asked for.
You know the sound of it,
but you’ll never understand its silence.
Kaycee Painter
Kaycee Painter is a disabled poet from Dalton, Georgia. She writes from the body and identity, often exploring what it means to endure in a world not built for you. Kaycee’s work has appeared in Mouthful of Salt, Beyond Words Magazine, and The Nonbinary Review.