They try to tell you what you look like inside.
Collections of organs,
Neatly compactly arranged around each other
Like the boot of a car packed for a holiday.
Strings and sinews,
Parallel lines of muscles
In a limited spectrum of red through brown.
Blood flowing through you in lightning-fast highways.
But in truth,
It only starts to look like that
The minute they cut you open;
That's when the spell is broken.
No what it really looks like
Is something altogether different.
Blocks of colour,
Every colour you could imagine
Make up the inside of you.
You're like a walking Mondrian painting
Of pulsating, vibrant shades, keeping you going.
When you look at something beautiful,
It's what's inside you trying to get out.
That exists in an eternal striving to escape.