The updated, My Name, piece.

My Name by Chloe Ivey My name is a small, red-nosed child sneezing in the coldest of winter days, a pomegranate – sweet to some, bitter to others. It’s a label on a child’s toy. Exactly what it is. A small, fragile creature cocking its head to the side. The scent of a flower. My name is a blue winged bird who's caw is soft and inviting. It's a bird that can sour the sky, night or day, rain or shine. Chloe. Smooth to the sound. From C to E a wondrous noise. What sweet joy to hear. Not Clo, Clo Dog Clo Clo, Khloe, Cloe, but Chloe. Spell it wrong and receive a free dirty look. My mother says my name was “Chosen not picked.” And that it was between Miranda, Isabel and Chloe and that Chloe won. She said my name was like the rich perfume, but I’m more then expensive, I’m priceless. She said that Chloe was and always be her little princess. I heard a soft whisper say Chloe. Then it turned into a talk, which grew into a loud shout, which turned into a scream. My name was being abused, stepped on, and the name I loved most was turning into something rotten. Like old cheese. It was bleeding, and my cheeks were as red as a freshly picked apple. Like a fall leaf blowing in the wind. But now my name was no longer an embarrassment. Once I found my place, my name was once again a catchy song, a soft quilt, a candle in a dark room, and a sunrise.