names and the people who know them - poem

Some people use my deadname as a tool, the way any name acts like a tool. Call out, and you can grab my attention just fine, get me to do the task you need. What they don't know is that using it is painful, it’s barely compatible with my gears and my joints; too much more use and I’ll rust up completely. 

Some people don't wield my deadname like a weapon, rather something sweet, a word with love infused. It’s just that they don't know it isn't meant for me, isn't mine. They don't mean to hurt me and they don't, and I fear what would happen if I broke the truth to them. Would they say my real name with the same feeling? 

Some people utter my real name like I am a child who gave himself a ridiculous nickname, they don't want to offend but clearly disapprove. They aren't capable of hiding the doubt in their scrunched faces and their hesitant voices; they believe I am incorrect about myself. If only they could feel the certainty in my heart. 

Some people hold my real name like a fragile moth or a newborn baby; scared to damage it, scared to expose it to the terrible world; wanting to do the protecting for me. They hold my fear and steal my power to choose when I need it and when I don't, thinking that they are doing me a service. And I guess they are. 

Some people boast my real name like there's nothing else it could possibly be, like my past doesn't matter; the present is the most wonderful thing and the future is full, like fear is irrational in the face of so much joy and truth. That may not be the reality, but it is everything I want to believe and more. 

(new style i tried out! this is really just a brainstorming session that i ironed out a little bit bc i couldnt think of another way to arrange it but i dont hate it)