Sag Rising: Feral Gait

I was born with hooves and hubris, half-girl, half-galaxy, all gallop, no brakes.
I came into this world wearing stolen rings and a smirk that said “don’t wait up.”

People say I run.
I don’t.
I ascend.
In glitter.
In grief.
In gas station coffee cups and GPS reroutes I never fix.

My closet is a warning sign in fringe.
My mind is a TED Talk that keeps losing its notes.
My spirit guide is a playlist called “Hot Girls Don’t Settle, They Vanish.”

I am a vibe-based prophetess, reading tarot spreads sideways and still pulling truth from the smoke.
I call them my emotional support props and pack light enough to leave mid-sentiment.
One hooved foot in philosophy, the other stomping through my ex’s dream journal, wearing cowboy boots and a half-formed opinion about time not being real.

I flirt like a fire hazard.
I kiss like a compass that doesn’t want to point north.
I ghost like it’s a cosmic obligation.
Catch me mid-departure asking if you believe in parallel universes where we tried a little harder and I still didn’t stay, but God, it was hot.

I’ll drop a philosophical hot take between sips of ginger tea:
“Maybe heartbreak is the portal.”
“Maybe love isn’t real, just nostalgia for what almost was.”
“Maybe I just didn’t like your Saturn placement.”

My intuition is feral.
It howls.
It kicks.
It knows when someone is lying from two time zones away and it whispers “run” before my brain knows why.

I am the centaur you were warned about.
Sag Rising means I’ll show up late with a poem, a prophecy, and a neck tattoo you didn’t know I had.
I fall in love in three seconds.
I fall out at customs.
I laugh like a religion you can’t convert to.
I leave like a stampede in retrograde.

So if I said I loved you —
I meant it.
But I also loved the road, and the sky, a flight to Puerto Rico, and the version of me that only exists when no one’s watching.

I don’t say goodbye.
I hoofprint.
And if you ever find glitter in your mouth, you’ll know I passed through again.