“I have no future plans,”
I begin calmly.

I am arms outstretched
walking nowhere but with
ardency so  I am labeled:
whimsical and manic,
a troubled woman
not to marry and
like a wound up
fairy, the character that
keeps the music box
spinning.

until it’s boring:
the repetition,
the posing,
the pink smile and
matching slippers
leaping from her
gold coiled post
growing nerves and
ankles that bend flat
to walk to
run. to crawl. 

people like me because
I have no plans,
am honest about it,
resplendent teeth when
writing sonnets to the men
and a sense of fury when
reflecting on affairs.
I’m big,
and have wings that
carry weapons. 
  I hear in a distance  someone repeat it
      you use intimidation as a tactic 
      to seize opportunity
      well,

I am blessed with delusive lips
and I also use black magic.

“seven of cups”