The Book of Weston

Inside becomes outside,

no longer able to hide.

No makeup, clothes,

manners, persona, pose

can conceal

undeniable flesh pouring out,

vivid life bursting from

this soft facade.

We hold volumes, all of us,

gallons of mortality

behind our fragile smiles.

The black hole to it all is

right there, no separation,

only hidden temporarily,

waiting for the great reveal.

One way or another,

we cannot contain it forever;

we must gush.

But hold your disgust.

We are together

in our liquid fragility, so

embrace your overflow.