Sophie Zhou

i am a canvas, 

my mama tells me. A piece of clay, lumpy 

and a little deformed, but it’s 

okay, because there’s potential 

in me yet. She takes me with her hands 

and shapes long, slender clay legs and a tiny 

pinched-in waist. Paints me porcelain-white 

and draws on a little red heart-shaped mouth. Places a jade

bladed knife in my hands. “There you are, my guai* 

little doll; go out into the world, and show them show them what you

can be.” So I go out into the world, clutching my jade bladed knife,

among the other little porcelain dolls 

only their bodies don’t inflate or bloat 

quite as easily as mine, and their bodies are not painted

but pure porcelain. They take me in, run their fingertips 

over my clay body and admire its sharp angles, 

the way a man could stand next to me and wrap his entire arm

around my waist. They praise my mama. “Good genes, you 

gave her,” they say, and she writhes in pride

over her creation. I am her finest work yet, even if

she has to stand over me every night as i stare down

at my plate, gripping my jade-bladed knife in my left hand. Even if

the porcelain-white paint peels off every night and she has to paint

me over again. I stand in front of

the bathroom mirror, in my bra, late at night

and dream of scooping out the fat in my stomach like the pulp

of a fruit until skin hangs over only bone. I feel

pity for my mama. I know she keeps the same

jade-bladed knife by her pillow when she sleeps at night,

uses it to carve herself. But at the same time, I wish she didn’t

give it to me in the first place, didn’t teach me

her ways, pick up the knife every time I dropped it and pry

my closed fist until it opened. I wish she could see

that even if we’re the most guai dolls

in the store we would still stay on the shelf, collecting dust

and dirt.

I use my jade-bladed knife and scrape

off my porcelain-white paint.

*common term used to praise children, meaning “obedient” or “well-behaved”

*published first in the Incandescent Review*