Poem: What's in a Name?

This is a rough poem I wrote during the last writing group. Right now, it's all one stanza and I'm playing with breaking it into parts.

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What's in a Name?

Your identity haunts you forever.
The names you accrued through middle school
scribbled in yearbooks, sepia-colored,
rhymed alliteration of food-snorting incidents,
the ones that sent you to mother wishing that
identity fades in an instant.
When you close your eyes, engulfed in dreams
you see a new job, a new quest, new love, new ambition.
Eventually, you have enough dreams
to carve away self, discard old clothes,
move from home to the city where you find that
identity haunts you forever.
You can't dispense your accent, walk, mannerisms
and in a few months, a year, your skin doesn't feel right
and you beg parents to go home, to your bed,
to an old job, to a place where
identity fades in an instant.
The high school sweetheart is married,
the streets are different, your parents have changed.
Your friends no longer hang out at the coffee shop.
You exfoliate your skin every month and finally
you meet someone new and
your name changes
but your parents call you the same
for identity haunts you forever.
Now your parents are in your house.
You install shower safety bars,
find abandoned walkers a nuisance.
Jeopardy is always on
and the world outside seems foreign
fading like identity.
It's insidious; first an address, then a phone number,
then the year. You drive to the police station
where they've been picked up
and then it happens again.
Soon their eyes glaze
and they don't remember your name.
Your identity haunts you forever.
No, identity fades in an instant.