On the first day of the year, she dreamed she ate her own insides, raw. She opened her torso like a cardigan and dug lightly with her fork into the belly first. Stomach and liver, even a bit of kidney. Each bite came easily. As she worked her way deeper into each part of the open cavity, the lungs had a lure she couldn’t quite place. She wanted to taste them and save them all at once. They were slow-roasted and simple and fresh. So instead, she went straight for the heart. She was pleased with the flavor, the tenderness. And while she was aware of the ridiculous metaphor, she was more interested that as she took these careful bites, chewing and savoring, she continued to breathe. With her heart gone, she felt neither full nor empty. And so she moved on to the lungs. The fork instantly seared and dissolved the tissue. Open and exposed, all of her breath escaped and dissipated. And then there was nothing left to keep her going, nothing left to continue to consume.