to be somebody is to be something being a body.

This body has bones. Two hundred and six of them. This body has skin and muscle and nerves--God, the nerves this body has. And I find myself wondering if this body of bones and skin and muscle and nerves has limits. If this body has "yes" and "no". If this body knows "right" from "wrong". How long could I press this body's palm flat to a flame before the flesh melts onto itself and scars a glossy pink? How long can I force the body into submission, flat on its back, before the muscle atrophies and it gets stuck like that forever?

Is there good in this body? Is it a good I can find? A good I can hold in my own hands, between my own fingers? Is there a wishbone buried deep in this chest, two hopeful halves hidden in this vessel just waiting for me to find them? How do I find the good in this body? Should I crack open its chest? Reach inside and pull out all the parts that feel wrong? And if I find this wishbone--this good, pure thing--should I pull that, too? Should I whisper my hopes and dreams into the cavity I'll make of this body and break apart something that could very well be holding the entire thing together?

What if I come up empty? What if there is no good or bad or right or wrong in this body? In any body? Or what if I draw the short straw? What if my half of the wishbone is small and frail? Does this body have wishes, desires, hopes, dreams of its own?

Who am I to govern this body? Who am I but an idea caged by bone, wrapped in skin and muscle, wracked with nerves? Am I me or it? Is it me? What part of this owns something? Controls something? Is something?