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.

I set things ablaze or bring lovers to bed, I pit foes in rings and pair socks in red. What am I?