There are holes in the meat. Holes that were put there. Holes I made by my own hand. The flesh gets roasted and carved and served. Awaited by eager mouths that water and salivate for a taste of the Blessed. As I simmer, waiting to be eaten. I wonder if I will taste as rotten as I feel. The knife is sharp. The wounds are precise. And I lie there served with a grin and steam. I do hope that they are not too voracious. Perhaps a piece of myself will be left for me.