A body, not a body

Sometimes a body is not worth suffering for. 
Sometimes a body dies under a sheet meant to be a blanket. 
Sometimes when a body sleeps it looks lifeless, especially when covered —
like swimming pools in autumn with their tarps pulled up, 
or boiled yams with their purple skins thinning, peeling back.
Sometimes skin forgets it’s meant to protect, peeling back instead
& revealing the glittering flesh that makes a body human. Or not. 
Sometimes a body looks human but is lifeless, 
even though its hair will still grow, as will its nails,
& even its flesh will flash & blood will flow 
when you peel back its skin. Sometimes a body surrenders in its sleep 
and becomes lifeless. You’ll spend hours gazing at it, 
waiting blindly for the next rise and fall of the blanket, 
admiring the rubbery curve in an ear or the pale pink scalp falling off a head
before you understand the ultimate truth: 
sometimes a body becomes no longer a body.

CALLIA LIANG

Callia Liang is a senior in high school. Her work has more recently been acknowledged by the Rising Phoenix Review as well as the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. She lives in New York.