Life of a Slice

First I'm in the mixer
becoming thicker and stronger
Around and around and around
I am dizzy
Dumped out on a table
My lumpy body is cut
into many equal parts
and then I must rise
Soon it will be my turn
Thick meaty hands
massage me
spreading me thin
tossing me in the air
for everyone to cheer
A slight dusting of white powder
I am painted red
all the way to my edges
Topped with shreds
Sometimes the cured remains of pigs
Sometimes fungi
and things that make me cry
The searing heat melts my shreds
and browns my bare edges
I am removed from my heated oasis
and left on the cold slab
of stainless steel to rest
Again these hands
connected to massive forearms
Slices me into pieces
and places me on the glass shelf
for all to see
On display so men drool
when passing by
Until one chooses me to be his
Off the line
and into my own cozy little box
As again I wait to be masticated
My only remainders are the lingering
stench of garlic on breath
and a stain of red on someone's
white shirt

What am I?

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