"thank you for taking care of her"

when i was six i lost my first tooth
and that was the first part of me i remember losing.

it always frustrated me growing up that no one could say my name right because of the "v"
and its never been spelled right by a stranger.
s-a-v-a-n-n-a
that has been my name for eighteen years but i have never felt quite comfortable with it.
sometimes when people ask me my name i have to think for a second.
savanna isn't reflex and it always feels a little strange rolling off of my tongue.
and to hear the name perched on a lips of a stranger, it makes me feel empty.

i didn't want to tell you my name
because i was afraid that you wouldn't use it gentle enough.
but you did.
you said my name with all the care in the world,

and then you started shortening my name.
and then you stopped using it.
and then you stopped calling.
and then you stopped answering.
and i remember that as the fourth part of me that i lost.

i've never felt comfortable in my own skin either.
i always take baths in water hot enough to burn me
and tonight my skin was itchy.
i dug my nails all over my body in the boiling water
because sometimes when love,
and care,
and trust,
and people
are not real
pain is the only thing that is.
the pain reminds me that this is my skin.
and that my name is s-a-v-a-n-n-a

and lets congratulate each other because i didn't pull out razor blades.
they saved me again.
"take care of her," he whispered.
"thank you for taking care of her."
"thank you for making sure she is okay."
you did it,
you all pulled me back from the edge again.
keep patting yourselves on the back
because you're all taking care of the girl
who apparently can't do that for herself.