As a kid, I spent countless hours before bed wondering about the weight of a name. How a name can shape the people we become.

Does a childhood nickname make you revert back to a much younger, far more timid version of yourself? Does your middle name remind you of the person you were in high school? A name only friends from ten lifetimes ago called you? A name that was once drenched in adoration, slowly morphing into the sound of medicine dripping down their throats?

But what weight does my name hold on other people when I’m not around?

Does my name put a foot on your neck and halt your breath?
Does it wrap its slender fingers around your heart and squeeze?
Does it bring your blood to a boil while the hairs on your body stand?
When you run into a stranger sharing my name, do faint memories echo throughout the crevices of your brain?

Does the residue of my name seep through your body and make you want to run and hide? Or do your arms instinctually open for an embrace you’ve stopped expecting.

What do I do to your body?