The Life and Times of Frankie Bee

My name is generic. It is the store brand cereal you buy because it’s cheaper.
It’s based upon convenience. It is the unworthy leader. It’s the boring drum major at the forefront of the parade. It is a mask. It hides the true me, and I hate it.

My name is the wrong color. It is a light-brown haired white girl with blue or green eyes.
It is the wrong era, personality, and vibe. It doesn’t flow or groove as I do. It doesn’t belong to me, it’s just attached to me. It just exists: it does not live. It’s the shy kid at the middle school dance. It sits in the corner. A wallflower.

My middle name, however, is what is most important to me. It is the body of the butterfly; what holds everything together. It is unique and driven. It is quirky. It drinks tea in poodle skirts while listening to vinyl. It wants to travel the world. It is the law and it’s steel worker strong.

I wish my middle name was my first. Frances. I could be Frankie. My middle name is care-free. It has a personality. It’s my awkward laugh, my creative side, and my undercover badass. It is my true identity. It is a breeze in a field of grain. It’s dolphin skin. Smooth. You can’t teach smooth. It’s earned, I earned that name. It wasn’t found, it was inherited.

It is leather jacket clad. It stays up past its bedtime. my middle name lives for the moment. It has goals and dreams. It’s nothing like the rest. It is its own self. It exists and lives. Frances. She’s who I want to be. It’s what I will soon become. Frances. Frankie.
The face behind the mask.

c. 2013

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Confetti

Do stars get stressed out?
Do they decide they’re worthless,
while the men at NASA talk them down?
And when it doesn’t work
when the plethora of colors parade across the sky
like intergalactic death confetti,
who cleans up the scene?

Hades laughs while Nyx grieves.
“Such a bright star”
“It was my favorite”
“The constellations will truly miss them”
If only you said such things before.
If only you saw their distress,
noticed the shift in the night sky.
If only you let your eyes leave the ground for one second and gazed!
Just, gazed.

How can you possibly mourn the loss in a nebula
if you can’t remember what it looked like?
You never looked up in adoration
but you don’t, you would never, miss the chance to look up in mourning.
Post the splattered guts for likes.
Selfishness iced in fake empathy.
Save your tears.

I watched a star explode today,
a ball of gas I held dear
It was young; fragile.
Only living for twenty-six years, five months, and seven days
before pouring out in an explosion of color across the sky.
9,652 days after it’s own birth.

I watched a star explode today.

Spring Cleaning

I’ve never seen the “reset”button
used in regards to the human brain
You left broken;
packed up your pieces and walked out the door.
You didn’t so much as glance at me,
I forgot what your eyes looked like

The person who got in my car just four days later,
wasn’t you..
Well, not the “you” I came to know.
Wiped your hard drive; installed needed updates.
They gave you a spit shine and sent you on your way.

You look at me longer now.
You look at me more.
Today, you stared at my bare skin,
but you didn’t make it known, like usual.
No overcompensation.
Adoration without compliment.

There’s an extra highlight in your eye.
“You’re beautiful” — No argument.
I’m learning to love a you that loves yourself.
A you that’s excited to be alive.
An old flower, finally letting itself bloom.

 

Smoke

The ghosts of my former self frolic in the distance.
I see them, I’m the only one that does,
But they don’t see me.
They pass in and out,
shaking me from within.
Not knowing they’re tearing me apart;
they carry on with afterlife.
That part of me has died.
Coffin is closed, please don’t open.
Let the nails hold.

Parasite

It’s coming back; the hole in my stomach.
The cold emptiness
Toxin creeps from my heart,
Dancing across my ribs like mallets on a xylophone.
Laughing at me while my chest is enclosed in ice
I’m fighting a losing battle.
Thoughts bounce off the walls of my brain like ping pong balls.
Please let me go.
I want to be free
I want to live.
But you are me, and I am you.
One dies, so does two.

Tipsy

I’m so warm.
The type of warmth you feel after just enough alcohol.
Sudden, like a spark set off a fire in your stomach.
The flames making a trellis of your ribs before they warm your fragile heart.
And before you know it you’re spinning, dancing, and laughing it a liquor-driven bliss.
The spirits, not made from Earth, but pressed from fresh love, lust, passion.
The blur begins and emotions fly
Don’t be an angry drunk.

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