To utter my first name is to fully use the mouth. The lips will have to fold in between the teeth only to be separated soon. Though the tongue has a choice whether to stay afloat or to softly, repeatedly tap the hard pallet of the mouth. Then the lips will have to assume the shape of a phantom cigarette, and end with the tongue touching the roof once again. But you chose to cut it short, as though considering the untrained utterer.

Upon the slicing, the separation, you favoured the first syllable. (Though you had other plans for the second syllable.) You chose the first born to be the rightful heir of your endearment. You christened it, I blessed it. You could sing it, and silence me. You only needed to mix it with breath to tell me how you felt.

And you called me this because you loved me. And I allowed you to because I felt alive when you do. In case you have forgotten, you can always dust off the drawers of your mind.

My name is Marion. My name pays homage to the god of war. My name is a verb for damage, upset, or ruin. And it could pass for a storm’s, but you chose to cradle it like the sea. You chose to accept the gentle, and swam beneath its surface. You knew how to use your hands––to hold my temper before it becomes a tempest.