I am a woman, who should be in a museum, A relic for you to look at. I should be packaged in plastic, So when the world ends, and the fire consumes, The smell of one thousand years of petrol, Will escape back to the firmament. Encapsulate and preserve me, Make sure the acumen is tightly sealed. So that when I am touched by the hands of the curator, My secret knowledge will be revealed. Keep me safe, Let them look at the last frame of my existence. They will make up stories, That will point out the stains. They will say I was a great woman, And they will say I was a fraud. A little flame, Before the detachment. And an expert will come along, With little imagination, To judge a life, Reducing me to numbers. A woman, they will say, void of physical truth, But a metaphysical marvel.