Flight: Fiction Fifty-Five

Fiction 55 had a topic a while back, a theme called Flight.

It's long over but here goes nothing:

It was a graveyard for spoilt makeup, torn net leggings and hastily ripped packaging. Boarders got the barest inch of space in their final resting place, and occasional neighbors always intruded, displacing comrades, with hot, sweaty skin, before the landlord evicted his most recent pretty little butterfly. They left in teary flutters of their wings.