Cylinder-bellied, two bulged thighs. A loose gown falls, but goes up in disguise. Concealment should not happen, exposure is crucial. Suffocation's regrets are lost to this raw need for seeing. Polka dots, once on a child's dress, now blossom as wounds upon the skin. Ruffles adorn the thigh bloomers, a softness around the void between them. There is an emptiness that aches but a stark discovery, a burnt clay baby cradles within.