By Gia, age 18, Florida
Sweet Designs Featured Writer
Hey, you up there, whoever you are, I think you and I should have a talk tonight about where we are.
You watch as so many people sit and fall in love with the impossible.
Why won't you just scream with that booming voice of yours to stop loving materialistic things?
I window shopped earlier today, touching but not buying items I really desired.
Thom Yorke sings me a ballad about him being a creep, and once the piano fades out, a different voice reminds me that their newest CD is in aisle 3.
There is a faint fog when I leave the music store.
It's actually coming from a hookah in the center of the mall.
I watch as my ex-boyfriends, friends, and enemies all sit there, blowing smoke into each other's faces.
Where is that girl? And then they inhale while they look around as if I'll leave a sign.
Hey, you up there, will you let me keep all of them?
I demand you let them stay; it doesn't matter if they blacken their lungs with tar.
The smoke reaches my nose as I sneeze in disgust.
They all get up and start to walk away,
I try to yell for them but my voice doesn't reach.
I look down at the few bags that I do have, remembering I will have the comfort of them.
Hey, you up there, watch me as I decorate I-95 with new clothing.