Show me the millions of paths I should follow
And I shall show you down every path
Has nothing but sorrow.

Show me the person I am to be
And I shall show you life’s wrath
As that shall never be me.

Show me the life I could have
And I shall show you one half
Empty
That could never be a whole.

I’m torn in half,
Between the two sides of me.
Split right down from the head,
Half my nose, one eye, half my mouth,
One arm, leg, hand, foot,
Breast, knee, five fingers and toes,
Fifty thousand hair strands.

One side argues with another,
Always in conflict
Telling the other how to feel about
Life.
Love.
Liberty.
And the pursuit of happiness.

Because one half wants to be that little girl,
Who comes home every single day after school,
Sits in front of the television,
Watching cartoons,
While eating all snacks she can,
Since she doesn’t have to worry about her image.

But the other half wants to be the adventuress,
Catching the world with her mind,
Taking stills of life with her camera,
Feeling, hearing, experiencing everything,
Mind, body, soul,
Since she wants to taste that freedom.

One half wants puppy love,
Holding hands,
Trading gummy worms, crayons, colored paper.
Moments alone on the rooftop,
Disappearing to be lonely.

While the other half is stuck to you,
Bare skinned, fingers dancing, lips locking,
Sighing in pleasure, feeling the movement and beats,
Every single breathe taken in and out,
Down my neck.

Am I ready?
Can I grow up?
Am I stuck in the place of premature nature?
Can I survive in childhood?
Or am I to live forever in fifty/fifty
Never to decided one way or another?

Streets bustled with pink and red weeks before husbands, boyfriends, and lovers remembered the day. Stores filled with commercial candies and cards that are slathered in consumerism slogans. Phones ring incessantly as couples reserve the most secluded or most upscale or most romantic dining arrangements, tailored to their own tastes. Love in every age, gender, race seemed to glow.
Except for a little girl who never had a lover. She had been single in all her life, not a single crush returned. No one offered to be her Valentine.
In the morning, she dragged her feet along the cold, snowy sidewalk, passing by cars filled with couples giggling in their warmth. All she could was sigh and continue to school,
In the confines of education, the teacher allowed the students to choose a partner to work on a project in class. Of course, everyone partnered up with their love, leaving her the odd one out.
By break, all her friends had grouped into twos and huddled together. She couldn’t do anything but walk around by herself.
As soon as the bell rung for school to end, she dashed home to finish her homework to watch the television. She flipped through the channels: Valentine’s special, romantic comedy movie, romance movie, love episode. The more she watched, the more alone she felt. As if right on time, her mother swings into the house and announces that she and her husband will be taking a leave for the evening to spend together, and that the elderly neighbor will be over watching the house.
The girl called her friend and asked if her friend could come over. Her friend said she wasn’t allowed to leave the house. Instead of watching TV, she sat by the window side, waiting for the neighbor to come over.
The girl ate dinner at the table alone. She went to her room alone. She sat in her room alone. She showered and got into bed. Holding her teddy bear, she cried a little bit with just a few tears of loneliness. She fell asleep alone.
In the midst of her sleep, she woke up to noises downstairs. Muffled voices thank as a pair of feet shuffle out the door. The girl dashed down to her mother, looked up and reached as high as she could.
Grasping her mother’s waist and buyring her face into her mother’s stomach, she exclaimed, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mommy! I love you.”

This is a reminder that Valentine’s Day should not make you feel lonely. It should remind you of the love you have for other people, whether it be friends or family, lovers or neighbors.

You think you’re so cool
With your hood up
And hat down
And pants low
And shirt degrading
You think you’re so cool
When you open your mouth
To tell everyone how high you are
To prove that you a higher level than everyone else is
That you float sky high
That you so fly
That you got smashed with three other girls all over you.
You think you’re so cool
When you walk with that swag
Like you king of this place
Like you can do whatever you want
Whenever you want
However you want
You think you’re so cool with your attitude
And your thoughts of women
And your good looks
You think you’re so cool,
But you forgot that you were with me,
The uncool one that you grew up with
The uncool one that you played with
The uncool one that cared about you.

And I’m so done with you:
The thinking that everything is right
When it’s not.
And you think it’s always true
That when we fight
You’d never get caught

With the things you say
Or the stuff you do
Or the fact that you just don’t care.
You can’t even meet me halfway?
Or not say things that seem taboo
Or stop doing stuff I don’t even dare

Touch. And every time I utter a word
You just ignore
Forget that I’m here.
How am I supposed to look forward
Or even be yours
Or stop shedding tears

Over this stupid fight
Cause you have no sight
and you never noticed
the arms are sliced
In so many ways
Cause of my malaise.

You make me tired
You made me desired
You make me angry
You used to love me.
What happened?
I used to depend

On this
On you
On us.

I’m sorry, that the day I was born I was cursed with this body.
This body, that has and will betray me.
I’m sorry that I’m not the way you want me to look,
With my slender Asian body, lacking any feminine form.
I’m sorry that I don’t have the looming breasts white women possess,
Or the ghetto booty graceful back women have.

I’m sorry, that the day I was born, I was cursed with this face.
This face, that has and will give me away.
I’m sorry that I’m not the way you want me to look,
With my almond shaped eyes, disappearing when I laugh.
I’m sorry that I don’t have the high cheekbones Lucy Liu has,
Or mature face that other girls five years younger have.

I’m sorry, that the day I was born, I was cursed with this personality.
The personality, that has and will hurt me.
I’m sorry that I don’t act the way you want me to,
With my dramatic emotions, complicating every problem.
I’m sorry that I can’t stay calm when I’m happy like classy women do,
Or keep from crying like strong women can.

I’m sorry, that the day I was born, I was cursed not to serve you.
You who have and will judge me.
I’m sorry that you can’t love me the way I want you to,
With your time and attention, keeping me alive.
I’m sorry that you took away my heart like a bank robber,
And lost it somewhere along the way, without ever returning it.

(Not a creative writing entry…obviously.)

Thanks for following! Just a note: I’m a senior in high school, meaning that this is my last year of required schooling. Not only am I busy with school homework, but also with college applications, piano, and plays at my school. I will not have too much time to work on my creative writing, so if you do want to still follow me, I have another tumblr that’s probably easier for all of us:
http://screamindream.tumblr.com

If you want to listen to any rants/quotes/other personal stuff, follow me there. Otherwise, wait at least a few months before I post another short story/poem up here.

Love,
Sarah

“There used to be a plate,” she started. “It didn’t mean anything. It was just a plate that we had when I was growing up. My mom bought it from some stupid store. Ikea. I think. It was white, triangular. I don’t know why she bought it. She just left it on the counter top, with fruits. It was like decoration with a purpose.”

I chuckled. “Decoration with purpose?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t like those plates that you put up against a rack so it stayed up right. It actually held something,” she explained.

“Hilarious.”

She continued. “Well anyway. It was so simple. It was white and simple. Most of the time it just sat there with fruits in it, when important guests came over. Otherwise, it sat in the cabinets, collecting dust. I wanted to take it with me to college. My mom said she needed it, so that was the end of that discussion. I couldn’t argue with that.”

“But it wasn’t being used unless people came over. You could have said that.”

She sighed. “It wasn’t that easy. I just didn’t want to argue.”

“Oh.”

“So by the time I came back home to take it back, my mom had already broken it. ‘I guess I put it too high!’ was her excuse. The plate, it didn’t mean anything to anyone.”

“Then why did you want it?” I was confused.

“It didn’t mean anything,” she repeated, as if she didn’t hear me at all. “Such a simple thing, to be forgotten, and once it’s broken, it doesn’t matter. It’s so easily replaced. It’s used only occasionally, but only as something to impress others by. It’s hidden away, and only remembered when someone needs to use it.”

“So…” I was waiting for her point. She usually rambled on, stringing one word after another.

“Nothing. That’s it.” She ended her story and left the room to her kitchen. Gentle sobs floated out back into the living room. I went in to check in on her. She slumped against the wall, shoulders moving up and down. She kept repeating:
“I’m just like that plate. I don’t matter.”