Is it possible to find comfort when uncomfortable in your own flesh — at the sight of your own chest? I wish it was flatter, hollow. What is a sanctuary if not the body? Refuge consists of feet flat against the floor, centering of the mind in the diaphragm, eyes closed. If I ball myself up closer, tighter, will I feel grounded? More like me? The knife rests against the plate. Can a butter knife cut through skin? Can I carve my sanctuary? I rest on the platter. I am displayed for your consumption, my consumption, for my comfort, your comfort.