Frank O’Hara, an Aries, spent his entire life thinking he was a Cancer. His parents lied about the day of his birth, hoping to reimagine his conception for their Irish-Catholic families. You, Aries, are already reimagining — your days are bright red. Your future is never inconsolable. You’re too independent for that.

You’re growing a collection of found objects and unlikely desires. This, too, lacks the satisfaction of pollinating fruit trees. You crave for orchards of orchids to cross the highway like veins. The geography of the season is mapped out through bruises and pear skins.

You think unread messages are hardly a symptom of anything. You stand equidistant between boredom and a fight. A concept exists, and it’s called driving without talking. You’re too eager to answer the door.

Someone will compliment you. It’ll make you believe you’re being rational. You’re a massacre of self-discipline. Anything could be transparent if you wanted it badly enough.

You’re equivalent to the slow burn of a river in May, but to you, everything tastes like July. Your wrists are your own — you keep them wrapped between your legs. Expression is just another twin of pride, another seat at the table. Sit down. You won’t feel welcome.

You’re romancing the idea of transcending the mundane, but you can’t mark the difference. To you, countable and uncountable nouns are indistinguishable. Virgo, you’re uncomfortable with any verb in the subjunctive. You are capable of a creative life.

If you happen to find a surprise in the near future, don’t be afraid to take something you’ve been watching. You’ll have reservations. Don’t hold yourself. The moment may be just fleeting enough to enjoy the possibility.

That thing you regret? Better believe it’s coming for you, unless you forget about it. Scorpio, you’re always a step ahead. This spring is greener than you thought it would be. Start following through, maybe? 

It’s spring, and you’re the honeybee. You’re solely attracted to people who are allergic to cats. If you haven’t gotten your tonsils removed yet, the time’s coming. Your foot is just far enough inside of your mouth to salvage anything.

Maybe you hate the spring because it has nothing to do with you. To you, the world is no longer mysterious. It is a series of controllable things, and you’ve made yourself the exception. Well, unless you forget to commit soon. You fail to define anything you’re outside of.

You wished that water in your mouth was blood. You’re looking for a way to make this story more interesting. Every beach is a borderland between your catharsis and some token of manifest destiny. U.S. history is not enough to see you destroyed.

You’ve successfully peeled off all of your scales, you flake. You’re becoming perpetually sunburned. Stop mistaking flying fish for bluebirds. Those feathers won’t stick, no matter how much sunscreen you lather on.