Looking out the window, with her greased forehead pressed against the glass she repeats, "I've got to get out of here".
With walls marinated from the smell of beer from long Friday nights.
With floors hardly walked upon, due to the hatred to get out of bed.
With pillows formed to fit every possible move of her head.
Tossing and turning comes natural, as do the continuous nightmares of "what if?".
And as her greased foredhead lies upon the window, she notices more than butterflies.
More than the magnolia trees.
More than the white picket fence desperatly in need of a coat of paint.
More than the freshly cut grass.
More than anything, she notices several more grease marks from previous visits to the same window seal.
As the last "I've got to get out of here", escapes her chapped lips, she realizes the truth.
"I'm never getting away from here".
Her greased forehead leaves the window once again, and makes its way to the floral pillowcase.