On this cold, snow laced night party crowds skirt ’round a long-limbed girl.
Who is she? Standing on the sidelines, looking lost, unfound. Nobody claims her,
No one takes her hand. But there are no tears on her plain featured face. Perhaps
Smudged traces of those she’s wiped away in a weaker state. Those private times,
Few and distant. If she could find the courage and a quarter the lost girl would
Call home. Maybe this time they would welcome her voice. Maybe this time they’d
Honor her choice to be herself, not what a piece of paper and a doctor declared.
Praying for Eyebrowz 