Aug 2016
My house is a closet
And I spend my days peeking through the cracks
In the door.
Trying to get out
While you cling to the keys
And lock me inside.
And I spend my days peeking through the cracks
In the door.
Trying to get out
While you cling to the keys
And lock me inside.
I am gay, bi, lesbian, lgbtq. I am not a title. I am love. People turn that into a terrible, *****, ugly thing. Why? Why does my love make you uneasy? And what gives you the right to have a say in it. It breaks my heart that people will discount me for such a lovely thing. I am not ashamed. I am not embarrassed. I am sad. And a bit alone.
(23/F)
Please log in to view and add comments on poems
