My Name Requires Much Of Me

I think you should call me
by some other name.
The one I bear’s too much.
The one I wear is hard to say
in public.  I can feel everyone
looking for me when it’s spoken.

I think you should call me
by some other name.
The face I wear doesn’t add up.
The arms and belly are awkward
and sit too far out from my core.
I know I’m taking up too much space.

I think you should call me
far less often.
I hate how often I’m conjured.
I hate the feeling of obligation
it creates.  I want to slip into
some floor crack and lie below you.

I think I’m going to disappear
and reappear somewhere else.
The new place will not have heard of me.
I’ll raise bees and never wear a hood
or suit against them.  I’ll be stung
so often my face will change and change.

I think the name I’ve got
is a bad one. 
I think a name does more
than signify your being.
The one I’ve got made me what I am.
I dislike that.  I want to hear me called new.