In America, they see an outsider.
Blinded by my complexion:
A porcelain figure without the white sheen.
Their instinct says I can’t possibly be one of them.
But when I open my mouth to speak
Their senses debate the existence
Of such a familiar foreigner.
“Are you mixed?” they’d ask.
As if that’s the only acceptable answer,
As if I can’t be part of two worlds.
In China, they see one of them.
The comfort of a familiar face,
Another blossom in the bouquet.
But this veneer is fragile, too.
Shattered as soon as I open my mouth to speak,
Words laced with a distant tongue.
“Are you a foreigner?”
Their unspoken words
Singeing me around the edges,
Melting the mold I was supposed to fit in.
At first they saw a flower
Just where I belong.
But instead they see a dandelion
A weed all along.
Jennie was born in Boston, and has attended school in Massachusetts, Shanghai and Hong Kong. Her favourite subjects in school are English, History/Humanities, Drama and Fine Arts. She has a passion for reading, creative writing, geography, psychology, and aspires to be an author in the future.