My insides are a clutch of bees surrounding an iron ball. I can see them move through my chest, watch my breast rise and fall with their motion. I think you knew them once while you laid your head there, when you told me my heartbeat was a buzzing, when you tasted honey from my cheek after a cat scratch. My insides, lower, are two elephants holding the skull of a bear. It is after zoos, inside me, when the ghosts of the flamingos cause pink fogs to rush through the old lion house. My insides are the dripping of a hose left on for three years, they are two elephants mourning, they are atmosphere of Venus being siphoned off into a black hole real slowly. I know this because when I run I feel weird gravities closing my windpipe, imploding me from within, and taste sweetness at the back of my throat.