There is a boy that lives in my closet. I keep him in a Nike shoebox next to my skeletons and other things I’m trying to get rid of. Day by day I guard the door to my closet in fear of what you’ll say when you realize he’s not another thing you can control. I beg and hope that he’ll stay inside my claustrophobic closet but each time I let him out it gets harder to keep him in because now he knows there’s something outside his confined life. Because now he knows there is a world of dazzling color and loud laughter and he isn’t satisfied like he used to be. So each time I leave my home he escapes into the way I talk or the binder on my chest and it scares me that I can’t seem to hide him anymore. There was a time when I wasn’t afraid to let him be seen. We used to play together, back when we didn’t realize you were staring at us in horror, whispering my difference in each other's ears. But just because he was visible doesn’t mean he was seen instead all you could see was a confused girl, a “tomboy”. But you say I’m getting too old to be a tomboy. Last night you crept into my closet a gun in your hand and uttered those ten painful words I could not bear: “You’re going to high school as a girl next year.” And for each word there was a bullet wound bleeding water from my eyes and screams from my throat I woke up to find locks on my closet, a reminder that all the courage I’d worked up to tell you about the boy I was hiding was a wasted effort. The boy pounds his fists against the empty walls but I can only helplessly cry for the person I wish I was.