Theta Blew Out Another Plume

The Glow Dies Down, And She's Standing At The End Of My Bed--the One Who's Been Following Me Around Leaving Feather Messages. I Take In The Torn Fishnets, Plaid Mini-kilt, Shiny, Riveted Breastplate With Leather Straps At The Sides And A Worn Great Temolo Decal Near The Left Shoulder. Her Wings Are A Crazy Black-and-white-checkered Pattern, Like They've Been Spray-painted At A Body Shop To Look Like Hipster Sneakers.

Because 'you're Perfect Just The Way You Are,' Is What Your Guidance Counselor Says. And She's An Alcoholic.

You Are Absolute Angels Of The First Order. If I Were Pope, I’d Canonize You.” “the Pope Would Probably Love To Turn A Cannon On You!

And For A Moment, I Understand That I Have Friends On This Lonely Path; That Sometimes Your Place Is Not Something You Find, But Something You Have When You Need It.

It's As If I've Inherited A Skin I Cannot Quite Fit, And So I Walk About Constantly Pulling And And Tugging, Pinning And Pruning, Trying Desperately To Fill It Out, Hoping That No One Will Look At Me Struggling And Say, 'that One There- She's A Fraud, Look How She Doesn't Fit At All.