Her hair is tied with a ribbon Saying "This is not for you." She wears a pendant of stamped brass Saying "Non sum qualis eram." "I have been a hero since birth," She tells herself, As though that will somehow Explain her scars. She pierced her own ears, But did a shit job of it. Her tattoos tease around the edges of her identity. Her bones are ley-lines, She tells herself, Strung with symbols Heady with meaning. She has a certain "fuck you" inflected "Je ne sais quoi" about her. Her clothes bespeak carefully constructed laziness. "I've got my own style," She tells herself, While doing all she can To not be seen. She studied order through science and found it chaotic. She studied chaos through music and found it inviable. "I'll work with words." She tells herself She'll write a book, Or publish stories. She wanted to be a bus driver when she grew up. Then a linguist, then a biologist, Then a composer, a conductor. She never wanted to be What she became; The irony of which Is not lost on her.