While I know that the inside of my body is a dense press of lubricated meats

I can't help seeing it as hollow space, like the inside of a trunk.

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.

It is a secret, busy space, and when I imagine myself inside it, I am filled with glee and self-satisfaction.

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.

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.