You drew a picture of me in a room I’d never seen Wrote a story over my name and called it what it seemed You put me in your folders with words I never chose And every time I spoke the truth you built another wall But you don't get to tell me who I am You don't get to write my name I wear my hat the way I want And I walk my own damn way My name is mine My voice is still my own You can build your walls around me But I won't disappear inside them My father held the pen while time was running backwards His hand could still remember but who was living in it? Numbers danced across the paper Stories changed their shape And every time I asked, “Where did it go?” the silence grew But you don't get to tell me who I am You don't get to write my name I wear my hat the way I want And I walk my own damn way I'm not your diagnosis I'm not your lie I'm not your family scapegoat or the story you designed I'm the woman still standing when the curtains hit the ground I took my name back and I'm taking my freedom now I wear my hat the way I want Crooked or straight — it's mine You had your stage But you never had me My name is mine. My voice is mine. My story is mine. And the hat? I wear it the way I want.
