Why Won’t You Say My Name?

Why do shame, hesitation, fear, and quiet anxiety

refuse to walk gently between us?

Why must they stand like guarded doors

whenever my presence brushes against your silence?

You say “you.”

You say “he.”

You hide behind “yes,”

and lose yourself inside “but.”

These careful words line up like obedient soldiers,

protecting something fragile—

or perhaps something fierce.

But tell me, what are these borrowed pronouns?

Why do they arrive dressed in distance

when my name waits,

barefoot and patient,

at the edge of your lips?

Is it modesty that lowers your gaze,

or fear that lifts invisible walls?

Is it the trembling of your pulse

that edits the truth before it reaches sound?

Between us hangs a delicate pause—

a breath too sacred to break,

yet too heavy to carry.

I do not ask for confessions wrapped in thunder.

I do not demand bold declarations

that shake the sky.

I only wonder

why my name must wander homeless

through corridors of your restraint.

When you speak to others,

your laughter flows unguarded.

But when it comes to me,

words tighten their knots.

They blush,

they hesitate,

they retreat.

Is my name a flame

that you fear might reveal

what your eyes already whisper?

Or is it a secret garden

you are not yet ready to open?

Tell me—

if love lives quietly in your heart,

why does it tremble at the doorway of your tongue?

Why does it choose distance

over the simple courage

of calling me

by my name?