Her ruby red lipstick leaves subtle traces on everyone she kisses. She pushes the baby carriage with her arms extended as if she pushing the children far away from her. I often hear the click clacking of her high heels at night, as the sound reverberates through the tired suburban streets. She goes to the mailbox, but why at night? It seems she is hiding something behind that mane of curly black hair and her Cheshire cat smile. A smile that is most likely forged by anti- depressants. The pill bottle sits in an expensive medicine cabinet, and it screams her name in bold black letters. After all, we are a Prozac nation, and she could be our queen. Her perfume permeates the air with the old smell of abandoned department stores. I often wonder if others feel her emptiness. Like the way her clothes hang off of her weeping for her bones. She is beautiful but stuck in an iron cell of motherhood. She is screaming to be set free, and I feel I am the only on that hears her.