I do not let my horoscope define me.
The stars have also been a reminder that
I am far smaller than I sometimes feel,
but they have not written my life for me.

I disregard the nature of the Taurus
and the instinct of the Leo,
and I decide to write myself instead.

I do not allow my bruised legs and
black lipstick to show me for a deviant,
but I also forbid my floral braids and
ruffled skirts to show me as naiive.

I put aside my daisy crowns,
and burn my tattered jeans,
because I am not a symbol
of the articles I wear
nor a victim of how they
draw me up.

I hardly let my fair skin and my
green eyes tell anyone anything
about me that might make them cry,
instead I tell my pout and my feet ro
tell them that I am stand-offish and
do not crave the questions.

I do not let my lashes draw the boys
or my shape attract the men.
I paint myself in tainted colors
and wait for hell to make its mark on me.

I am discovering that,
I hide too much of myself to be a person,
and am fading into an idea instead.