And when they ask her, “What’s your sign?”
She smiles, “Libra — the stars are mine.”
Her charm is a lantern, warm in the night,
But she dims herself so others feel bright.
She fights for truth, for the fair and the right,
But will nod along just to avoid a fight.
They call her pretty, like moonlight on glass,
But she sees only the cracks that they pass.
Like yes, she’ll attend your friend’s cat’s birthday party,
And pick the “Instagramable” coffee — it’s awful, but at least its arty.