There is a man in my closet
He comes out at night
Crawls over to my bed
Turns out every light

There is a man in my closet
He caresses my skin
Holds me gently
And the warmth seeps in

There is a man in my closet
He reaches into my throat
Fiddles around for hours
Just to pull out the day I was born

He howls with my mother
Sways in her tears
Weeps with my father
And it tells me it wasn't real

He rips it to shreds
Lets me watch the day fall apart
Says I made it all up
Because I can't stand the dark

The man in my closet
Doesn't like to imagine
A world without me
But wonders what would happen

If I didn't dream
Of smiling on a swing set
Or have the memory
Of hiding in my closet

Where I dreamt up the man
Who let me paint with words
Watched as I stepped out
And boldly touched the world

A time where I was pink
And every day was golden
When my hands would touch the ground
And somebody would still want to hold them

When I could stand atop a hill
And want to climb higher
The man would reach into his pocket
And pull out a ladder

But lately he retreats further
To a corner in my closet
With all the shame and guilt
He knows it's haunted

By painful apologies
Unnecessary remnants
Ones he wishes I would burn
So we could stop reminiscing

Again he reaches into my throat
Pulls out another day
One where I was lonely
One where I wish I had said

Please don't leave me
Please stay the way you are
Pink and golden
He'll catch you from afar

Now that dear man
Is only trying to keep me golden
Amidst all the clothes in my closet
For me, he'll fold them

I'm trying too hard again
failed as a daughter, a friend
hard to exist without faith
so I resist all the shame I can reach

because nobody's watching
nobody can hear me speak
seven years and counting
still I crave something sweet

I don't mind
I learned to cry

swimming in fears once caged
corners of my soul unmade
and the light from the door
as I fell to the floor, guided me

because somebody's watching
somebody has to be
seven years and counting
I need someone to hear

I don't mind
just let me cry

It started again.
The feelings. The bleeding.
The indents in my skin.
The waiting. The staring.
At the clock to move an inch.
The wanting to hide under my desk. In a corner.
Under the sink.
In the dark. In the closet.
A place where I could think.
About anything but how
I'm still pretending.
It feels like a performance everyone bought tickets for.
Expecting greatness.
An unlimited audience.
A constant improvisation. No rehearsal.
Some rehearsal. But unnecessary.
Because I change direction based on reactions.
To make sure the audience stick around.
Come for another viewing.
I need them to like me.
To come back.
Otherwise the show ends.
And I can't have that.
Because I'm an attention-seeking, narcissistic *****.
Or the main character. Or both.
No matter how much I hate it, the show must go on.