Rural Haze

"There is a haze in my eyes, and I wish you could see it."

I think I had a name once, but that was a while back, eighteen years ago when I first opened my eyes to the world. I did not see the sterile white ceiling of a hospital when I first reached up, but a ceiling fan slowly whirring overhead, specks of dust drifting through the dull air. I have not heard it-my name-since the day she almost killed me, almost threw her baby in the trash in a fog of pregnant hormones until Dad found her, weeping in front of a dumpster.

I don't think I'll ever hear it again.

But that's okay.