Daughter by Ocean Teu* (17, California)

you are something forged, something remade. your name is a moth
with eyes for wings, more limb than insect. you can try to carve the
letters out of the lipstick stains on the cracked bathroom mirror, but
you’ll find only yourself, dissected. eyes. lips. tongue. I’ll tell you now:
you are a combination of scavenged parts, of your past selves littering​

---

every room, like scales shucked from a paper wing, sprawled in the
moonlight. stop searching for your hands. forfeit language. remember:
you are a moth dissected and stitched back together. a face made of
faces. something scavenged. something nameless. something forged.
something remade. you are nothing more than parts: eyes. lips. bones.
wings.