She says my name.
She says my name to get my attention.
She says my name at the end of a sentence to punctuate her argument.
She says my name; I’m a puppy; I wag my tail.
She says my name in Spanish.
She says, my name, no yells it when it is time to come home at dark.
She says the fake name I gave her.
She says my name but I hate when she says it.
She says my name on repeat.
She says a shortened version of my name.
She says my name sounds pretty white.
She says my name and wants to know if I have time to take a brief survey.
She says my name in a whisper.
She doesn’t say my name.
She doesn’t know my name.
She says my name when my order is ready.
She says my name like a simple question that is easy to answer.
She says my scientific name.
She says the only nickname that ever stuck.
She says my name because I have no power here.
She says my name so it’s not forgotten.
She shouts my name in the streets.
She says my name telepathically: hot feet, a hand in my leg hair, pain in my lower back.
She says her name because she’s tired of saying mine.