Headlights by Taeyeon Han (17, California)*

​i.
My dad teaches me to be a rock
in the sea of ravenous scissors.
but paper rises as quickly as the lemon sun
and dad,
papercuts hurt.

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ii.
skin tangled on skin is an experience I can’t
tear off like an old Band-aid so
I sip tea laced with defiance.
I train my fingers to spin gold from
rock sediments but
I’m a poser;
I’m no Rumpelstiltskin.
useless tickles my ears from my father’s lips.

iii.
What am I to become?
Everyone seems to color in their blueprints
with baby blue, but mine’s in black and white.
I hope their blue bleeds into my tomorrow.
If not, I’ll dab my paintbrush to steal their watercolor.
No, I mustn’t, but my fingers are trained to fidget at the sign of success.

iv.
I slip on things as obvious as banana peels
just like in the cartoons for a couple of cheap laughs.
A defense mechanism, I know, but I’m never satisfied.

piece by piece,
I feel myself disappear into the addiction of attention,
drunk on gasoline.
But I know my drug of choice will always be cortisol.
Sobriety — a creation myth untold.