In my next life, if there is one.
I want to be a bee.
Not a queen bee who sits on her ass all the time (seeing as I’ve already done that)-but rather a female worker bee, baffling scientists with my existence as I did in this life; only they’d study me with fascination and not perplexing eyed audience.
Perhaps they’d give me a name too, like Poppy, Daisy or Lily and I’d work twice as hard as the male bees to gain the Queen’s respect and earn her sweetness (like I never did in my mother’s mouth).
I’d be cute, but not disabled cute. Not inspiration cute. Not infantilization cute.
With a “Today Show” segment.
With “Bee a True Worker” tee shirts.
And then, I’ll die due to exhaustion from my job without any true thanks.
Studies have shown that being an activist elevates your blood pressure//my personal studies have also noted that this has not furthered my income//that I’ll die due to exhaustion without any true thanks.
To work in the arts, you must be pretty-to make money, (and although my cheekbones are to die for) i am not simply pretty.
My life is not desired like that of an insect who provides all life something to grasp onto simply because I’m seen as something that should not create life at all.
So in my next life-if there is one, let me bee something worthy.
Call me Poppy, Lily or Daisy.
Call me anything but useless.
Explicit Literary Journal 