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.