Since I was born, I have always seemed to be denied access. Denied early from the mother’s womb, born in a hurry to live, only to be kept in a box, away from love’s first touch.

Years have passed and that box that first separated us, is still there, invisible but just as constricting.

The box of “You are my daughter.”

I broke that one, finding a field of love on a foreign island, yet entering the box of a foreigner. Of other. You have to settle for a settlement, but you will always be on the outside. So I did.

But hey, I have two passports, two homes, two chances. In time, I would see it – the first one, received, while in a life-saving box, only to be taken away, far away into a country that didn’t recognise me as theirs, even if my blood is Bulgarian, that didn’t stop them, they wanted me to change. A baby – with denied access, due to their name. So, they changed it. This would be the first of many. Just the beginning of othering, the beginning of many boxes along the way and many name variables.

They changed me, so now I am the only family member with a different surname. No one fought for me then, no one fights for me now, when I change my name with my own two hands, as I was otherwise to be nameless, as my mother doesn’t have a son, she has a daughter, so I stay nameless, with a foreign name in a foreign country, that claims to be my home.

So, I looked towards the blue passport, hoping, scheming – one day, I would go back home, to where I was born, so much in a hurry, it must have been exciting to see, no?

Well, 2025 reached and the T has been erased, so I look at my blue passport – my last hope to find a home and wish to burn it.

You were supposed to be my safe box, why?