I stuffed the good wool into my gut. Unrolled my mouth like a rug, sucked the soft tendrils like a lover. Did you watch me, my little larvae lamp? Be tied to mother’s apron wings, I say in the new country. A flying moth throws itself into a fire, I say in the old country. You mimic back, pulse the warm slime inside. Be tied, you slick. To fire, you stew. No, no, I whack my wings against your soft shell. Stupid, don’t go toward light, don’t go toward fire! Children simply don’t listen. Sometimes, I get so tired repeating myself. Sometimes, I get so tired of eating. Guzzling cashmere can really run a body poor. Sometimes, I forget that I, too, am a child. I want to sleep. I want to cry. I want to grub myself inside out, greedy. Instead, I keep carving a canyon no one will name. Instead, someone will kill me, will put out this infestation of moth ers for good. The killer will look a lot like me, 餅印. And even when I’m long gone, my eyes will keep dripping felted fiber, a thousand times over and over. Just look at all these loose threads everywhere
