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While I know that the inside of my body is a dense press of lubricated meats
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I can't help seeing it as hollow space, like the inside of a trunk.
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Each elusive hint of sensation from one of my organs is a glint of colored light that reveals the organ hanging there like a Christmas tree ornament, so it's never lightless inside, but a warm, ruddy dark.
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It is a secret, busy space, and when I imagine myself inside it, I am filled with glee and self-satisfaction.
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It is mysterious in there and so when I can track the passage of some bubble through the labyrinthine turns of my intestines I feel like an archeologist unearthing the passages of a royal tomb under the featureless sands of the desert, pleased, but slightly uneasy about laying bare such an deliberately private structure.
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When something goes wrong with the inside of my body
I feel woebegone
in a more than physical way;
my feelings are hurt, my trust seems to have been betrayed.
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