I stitch a body of needle and thread in the shower
until my skin is paper-thin and nail-hangabable. I

was taught that the Europeans created the art
of skinning rabbits;

I feel as though I have been doing it
since the dawn of time. Here is a lesson on flesh:

it is thick and full until it is not. I learned this first
in church, pricking at myself in the pew

every time I heard unholy. I wanted myself
bare until the bone of me laid exposed

under God’s light, picked clean until someone
imagined I was finished; whole. Through sermon

I sat tongue in cheek with a preschool nod
singing Yes, Pastor! imposter smile with the same canine teeth 

I’d use to rip myself anew. What a habit it all became
and then the: Mother, I am sorry for scrubbing

at the skin you gave me and wishing it away. And then
hearing ungrateful in twenty different tongues. Re-learning

the practice until all that was left of me was the satchel
rattling with what remained; my mother, barefooted,

rushing into the hospital room telling me what a mess
I’ve made of myself. We’ll call the ordeal silly 

in a few years and tape our eyes with window film
until the next relative coughs up a confession

of chamelonation. For now, my mother asks:
Child, what are you hungry for? And I regurgitate  

the ashes I’ve swallowed, mumbling of a stomach
craving gravy and fresh bread.

Sade Collier is a first-year student pursuing a double major in Journalism and Politics and a minor in Creative Writing at New York University. You can read her upcoming works in Prometheus Dreaming and Beyond Words Literary Magazine.