House with Missing Teeth

by Olivia Hu

Imagine you are faceless and double-bodied, and
your mother doesn’t look at you until the moon
tinfoils you both, because you are only loved when
in the dark and half-forgotten. This is a law of the
universe, everything most beautiful when leaving.
Your mother has taught you to love a body less
body and more fluid. You know how smoke will
break anything. You know this, your mother less
flame a year ago, family picture severed at the lung.
Remember you are only silhouette. Your tongue is
buried somewhere beneath soil and the only way to
dig is with a voice and teeth, both of which you’ve
misplaced. Remember that it is day, meaning your
mother remembers her feet, meaning she doesn’t
love you yet. You are always wiping glass from your
fingers. Maybe next week you will dye your hair,
puncture each ankle into halves, become part river.
You are forgettable at best.