I raised my hand for the knife.
No happy-rot to take over me, I wouldn’t
let it end that way;
be more than living selfishly,
I let it take its cut of me,
winced, prolonged, to feel its motions,
intricate tattoo-chair surgery,
my pumpkin-belly scooped
of all its turmoil,
shell-dry, emptied, open.
But there shall be fire inside of me,
a candle lit for all the dead and warning,
a beacon to lost souls
and a martyr mouth, grinning
for this final feast of guts and generosity,
the maggots shall then never eat again.