My inventive voice was long ago silenced, smothered by required niceties, social acceptability, and good manners. But somewhere buried in me, I know there is a vibrating, caterwauling soul screaming to get out. Why else would unbridled uniqueness and unbound originality bring unwept tears of longing to my eyes? Why else would I feel the compulsion to write poetry in green ink on my perfectly acceptable white walls or yearn to ink dark moonflowers and orange butterflies in flight on my also perfectly acceptable white body? Yet, how do I find that girl who has swallowed her words or spoken them in a cipher of other less potent ones, to disguise them as perfectly acceptable and white? She is wandering in a labyrinth somewhere I have never gone before.