They gave me a name, but not a place,
No warmth behind it, no gentle grace.
It echoed in rooms where I felt unknown,
A word they spoke, but never owned.

I carried it like a borrowed coat,
Worn and faded, barely afloat.
Not stitched with love, nor pride, nor claim—
Just syllables, not soul—not flame.

They called me family, but kept me apart,
A name without welcome, a name without heart.
I searched their eyes for signs of care,
But found reflections that weren’t there.

I am not just letters strung in line,
I am memory, blood, and time.
A story waiting to be heard,
A life that’s more than just a word.