Rose Arcana The water swells, Filling up my chest Until I feel the soil dampen once it reaches my lungs. The seeds nestled in my body begin to sprout. Near immediately I feel the vines wind around my throat Snaking their way around the tendons in my arms Pushing to escape my body. More vines grow Using the thorns’ holes in my flesh as an exit; Twisting me tighter and pulling themselves out. The vines begin to envelop my outer body. And then the roses, Dark red, Bloody in color and for another reason. They start as buds Progressing as they bloom and grow in size, Their centers growing darker, As does my vision. He told me the roses were a mystery. He gave me the seeds. How they entered me I will never know, But how they escaped Will be evident on my body for eternity. The vines wind around my heart And I succumb

When I was in the fourth grade, a group of boys in my class started a "magazine." They wrote stories and made little pamphlets that they gave out to their peers. I asked to join and was met with a no. It was boys only. I couldn't write the stories that they did, and I certainly couldn't be the only girl. That afternoon I resolved to write my own story and show it to them. Maybe then I would get their approval. I wanted to write something that would affect them, something that showed I could really write. I wrote about a giant spider chasing somebody through a cave, devouring its human prey before he can escape. What screams "I can write" like a horror scenario? If they're scared, I win. I typed it out and marched up to two of the "editors" during playtime. I sat the computer on their laps and made them read my story. I told them if they liked it then I had proven myself worthy of entry into their club. I watched as they read, studying their expressions. The spider seemed to have scared them sufficiently; my story did its job. They looked up from the computer. I looked back, anticipating that "yes." It was a no. They said it was scary and that it was good, but I still couldn't join. This magazine was for them, the boys. My story did not change things. They may have now known I could tell a story, but it was not enough to include me in their literary circle. I was a girl, after all. From then on, I knew I needed to let outside factors dictate rejections, not my writing. I loved to write. If the boys hated my work, I would have been crushed. Somehow the fact that I was denied because I was a girl made me stronger in my determination to improve. If I entered a contest, I would rather have been rejected for "being a girl" than because my writing was bad. If someone was better than me, that was fine, but I had to be at least good enough. English class became my life. Every opportunity I had to put pen to paper, I took, whether I knew it or not. I started a blog. I discontinued the blog. I started a new blog. I discontinued it again. I wrote songs and put them online. I joined Quora. I deleted my account. I started a fanzine, took a hiatus, and started it back up. At every stage in my life, through numerous different creative mediums, writing has been at the epicenter. That desire to improve, to write more, has been my motivating factor since I was rejected from my first "literary magazine" in the fourth grade. There I discovered my passion for writing; the career that I have been striving for ever since, in one way or another.