Why would I light that on fire? I’ve always just called it a bra, anyway. Wouldn’t she be mad? No, no, no! Bring your torch over here and light this!

I show up monthly, like a ghost on cue,In envelopes white, or emails blue. You dread my name, avoid my glance, yet pay me still, I leave no chance. Electric, water, rent, I track it all, who am I, that makes your wallet crawl?

I make light, but I am not made of fire. You might see me in Your hands.

What loses its head in the morning but gets it back at night?

Light as a feather, yet shields the cold; a fortress for the fragile, in white armor bold. Often found in takeaways, but never on a plate.