I. The barista calls me ma’am because I am makeupless—the pink of my Polish skin and the South’s sun spots pocking my cheeks— and my wide hips are in yoga pants on a Wednesday, mid-morning. I easily ask about milk alternatives because I have learned the language of passing for calm and unconcerned with guns. II. I keep signing petitions online with an email address, not with the pressure of my name. III. I try to count the women who’ve shared their prescriptions— turn off the news. Do not think outside yourself for a while. I can hear the echo of fainting couches and yellow wallpaper. IV. All day, all night the body intervenes. I keep holding guilt in my mouth, regardless. V. No one wants to be Atlas, but we all want the body, the name.