"My story" you said.
I am composed of a thousand thoughts
all which scream violently
in the roar of a swift violin.
"My story" you said.
I'm afraid of everything, but
the calm movement of
sugary winds terrify me
more than the words you
must keep hidden from me.

You said.

My story is not the
sly way I flip my "magical" hair at the break of dawn.
It is not the "cunning" way I say
my "gentle" words.
It is not the "careless manner" in which
I dress.

But you said.

My story will not be
why you have found a reason
to see beauty in me.
Nor in the depths of my "yellow brick road"
eyelashes.
My story will not define me,
but instead characterize the
reason why I overthrew you.
C.R