17 is charting a line.
I stretch, I hide, I lie,
yet I can’t stop it from
cutting right through my eyes.
Sigh.

Every morning,
at my best, I put on the coat
of reluctant smiles, responsibility, and maturity
to hide my very own incapabilities.
Usually, I wear it poorly,
sometimes I forget.

Inside,
a voice scratches my lungs:
It’s not my fault!
It’s not my fault
to procrastinate writing my article
till late Sunday night,
to leave the scallops unsalted
and the beans unevenly cut,
and to forget reading the labels
of your newly purchased shirt
before putting it in the dryer.
It really wasn’t my fault.
I was reckless,
But that’s not my fault––
At least… I thought so.

Then,
I realized that
not giving a care,
or “I didn’t know”
itself
is an irreparable guilt.

As a kid,
wearing the coat of responsibility
is a pride,
the complacency when being praised
for picking up a fork,
finishing a chapter of a book,
or putting away dishes.

As I grow up,
the coat I wear with little care
becomes an obligation.
Heavy,
but adults wear it so well;
tirelessly,
despite it’s 34 or 89 degrees out.

Now,
I must farewell the put-offs,
The “not-my-faults”:
my dear friends who have accompanied me
for 17 years and more to come,
my shortcut to bypass
the consequences and blame––
I must let you go,
for the next person who hears my excuses
will not say a word
before scratching me off the list
of opportunities I once though
that I deserve.

In the world of survivals the fittest,
animals wear their coats well,
and
they stride,
heading somewhere far.