My silhouette is the making of a globe house not on stilts, the woman round and kind must be painted smooth and unsoiled. She must stand up straight without tipping. Bear the weight of every man that’s ever lived, bare all, be tall, smile, serenade with a siren song. I have swallowed the black-winged beetle—I am paralyzed with knowing. Eyes glue on, and I am no longer blinded by swing sets and scrapped knees. I am hips, and I make babies. I am straight, messy hair—you flip through images of curled brunettes while sucking on a dum-dum, and the only real thing I can give is a cup of warm coffee in the morning. Momentarily, I am human and not skin and the curves of a mountain for mankind to walk over, dig among the clay and fist with bright, beady voyeurism. All wait to see the heeled-shoes come off as my feet blister each day until death, and then, and only then, will my beauty be pure.