The raw feeling wants out and your sense of taste hisses that you do not do this in front of people. The Moon squares Venus, the deep feeling chafing against the cared-for surface. Let the raw thing out and embarrassment floods in. Wrap it up pretty and you fume at having softened your own truth. You paid in years of a home that looked lovely from the door and sat in disarray behind it, with no idea how to make the two one place. The grind handed you a discovery: emotion said well is also beautiful. You never had to pick truth over beauty. Honest form, it turns out, was always available.
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