Month marches on, motivation slipping, old habits rising, return of the worst of me. She wants to break out, in fits and fights she bursts forth, sneering and leering, chiding and challenging. She ain't no lady, she ain't no one's wife. Fierce and fiery, rude and obscene. Nothing's sacred, the female ideal is nothing but a cage to hold real identity down. The dial will turn again, she'll be tuned out, locked back in, down under layers of "supposed to".