Contemporary child of senses, beast of sensuality lost in a driven throne kitchen of ecstasy.  Laughing smiling skipping and hopping the days away.  She decided it was not okay. 
To be alone, beautifully alone, green and shining or dry and
cracked, it did not matter.  Loosened, lost in form, powdered like stars in a baby's eyes, grins of a madman's blind
fight.  Lost and found again.  Once again and over and under,
smoldering, in wait, patiently, smoky stares fixed on shadow walls.
She did not feel
free at all, except on Wednesdays.
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go.  Far far away from here, from there, from herself and them.  Even from leaks, as Kilgore Trout might say.
Or bugs
on the wall or bugs in your eyes.  Time to smile or you'll lose the prize.  First dibs for everyone!
Stumble and crawl until the
race is done.