Maybe Wren doesn’t need to leave to find out who she is. Maybe she already exists in herself like the fat cat who sleeps in the sun with a face that looks exactly like Audrey Hepburn’s. Maybe her pale eyes and pouty lips are coming together with her baby doll cheeks. Maybe her boots and her green stockings and her purple dog collar and chunky funky rings are breathing along with her, welcoming her as she becomes herself. As she changes from the fat cheeked bony little girl who dreaded questions about herself and slinked into the shadows of her curvy laughing squinty eyed friend. But Wren is by herself now. Nobody to slink along beside. And besides when she wears her witch boots she’s too tall to hide behind anyone anymore. But that is all very well because she doesn’t want to hide anymore. She wants to bloom into a weird looking flower that nobody has ever seen before. And she wants some people to shrink back in fear or disgust. And she wants others to lean forward to smell her lavender green tea scent and touch her vintage velvet petals. But she also wants to drag a tail of barbed wire along behind her so that the peppery pig-nosed bare clone girls will step on it and the barbs will cut into their scaly feet. And she wants painful shrieks to stream from their globby glossed lips. And she will cackle a sharp-toothed giggle and dance away in her witch boots. Though she never really likes to dance. She would rather jump and push and shove in a pile underneath her number one punky funky rock gods. So she clomps along understanding herself more with every step on the cold cracked grinning sidewalk peering at her as she walks. So Wren walks.