I have sung your name to my heart.
I have whispered it to the creatures with wings.
I have called your name in my dream space and delighted that there, at least there, you respond.
I have dropped your name like breadcrumbs, pulled it around me like armour, ridden it into battle like some great warhorse; hoping fervently that it would lead me through the forest, keep me safe, and carry me through the battlefield, carry me home. But the wild woman goddess within me throws her head back and shrieks with laughter, grief, and rage, because, silly child, only your own name can do all of that.
I have howled your syllables at the moon; sad and lonely, a keening cry that leaves me bereft for days.
I have torn your title from my flesh, cursing the suffocating way it cloaks me, shadows me, engulfs me.
I have pulled the thorn of your name from my body the same way a wild animal would; chewing and worrying at the wound left behind.
I have spat your name from my mouth and quickly inhaled other words; trying to fill every space so that you cannot sneak back in; trying to learn to love the shape and taste of some other word.
I have carried you. In joy and in remembrance, in rage and in confusion and in frustration, I have carried you.
But only once, tonight, I wrote your name. I wrote each letter of your name, carefully, mindfully, lovingly, on a silvery sage leaf. And then I set you on fire and watched the smoke carry you away from me.
And now I sit with sadness. But she is an old friend of mine and I don't mind her company.
And now I can feel a faint fire burning; my own, clean and bright, straight from my roots.
And now I sing my own name into my heart.