The last year I was beautiful I forgot the rules and walked across the 'Do Not Walk On The Grass' grass.
I started drinking Scotch at dawn and told my mother what I really thought about powdered milk and head lice and removed the bars of soap from all the bathrooms so I could swear.
The last year I was beautiful I stopped pretending I liked tidy drawers and I wore socks that didn't match and underwear with holes so they'd all be shocked when I wrecked my marriage, not my car.
And all the Brother Goodfellows and Sisters Uptight in the Kingdom Hall gasped at my irreverence and slithered away so they could hide under rocks that were the tablets of stone, shattered by Moses.
I laughed out loud at funerals to celebrate the all of life and danced naked on the graves of the should and should not and the have and have not and it all began and ended the moment I stuck a pin in the illusion and let the hot air escape with a hiss and a backward movement, out of control around the room that had been drawn with lines I had already colored outside of.