If I gave you a name, it would be a mellow-acid one, something that juxtaposes and composes taciturn silence. It could be a fragile, opaline shell cupped in my hands, throbbing and waiting to wake. (Dare I lift a finger? To do so will be like tearing my heart and wreathing it in shards of ice and fire.) I could be an artist or a martyr or a killer. If I gave you a name, you would slip through my fingers (elusively) and remind me: I am not mine.