Helen Gu

Self Portrait As Botched Rhinoplasty 

I said the cartilage rearranges itself to be smaller.
            I’ll be smaller too when something numbs my body —
I said I’ll cut myself between where I breathe. Chew
            the tissue that I shed; there is nothing else to consume.
To shrink is recession, secede from space into negative:
            as ocean to shore, as gibbous to gibbous, as girl to woman.
Yesterday I peeled apart the damaged mirror on the wall.
Tore off the sign that said (please) do not touch me
and built a border out of the fractals. I said I want nothing
            more than to be bent out of shape, to reflect in a thousand
trajectories. Hard-walled septum. My ribs splayed open,
            caging. I wonder how long until the bandages will heal,
unwrapping gauze into disappointment. I’ll slope in
the opposite direction now, scarless, a button on the sleeve.
Or the sleeve itself: elongating. Here is the shrinkage:
            I will not define—

Helen Gu is a 16-year-old poet based in California. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Eucalyptus Lit, Eunoia Review, Scapegoat Review, and Neologism, among others. She is an alum of the Iowa Young Writers' Studio and has been recognized by the Alliance of Young Artists and Writers, Santa Clara County Youth Poet Laureate Program, Bay Area Creative Foundation, and more. She is the editor-in-chief of Winged Penny Review. When she is not writing, you can find her obsessively singing opera arias, perfecting her homemade boba drinks, or re-reading Pride and Prejudice for the hundredth time.