She was captivating.
She forced you to reconcile
with your name
and the word queer
together for the first time.

It was new and you
only spoke it into existence
for her.
A vulnerability impossible to escape,
but you weren't worried.

She had pretty teeth
and thick eyebrows.
You felt an insurmountable
amount of love for her in a month,
than you had felt for any boy ever.

You weren't worried
until you were.
Women are gentile and kind.
They are caring and safe.
Until they're not.

You are fifteen.
Living behind closet doors,
thick enough to mask your queerness.
It squeaks when it opens,
you prefer it closed.

Your father explained the word, "disown"
with examples.
"Like, if you're a **** you have to move out."
She used that as a stick
to beat you with.

You cry, knees to chest in the shower.
She's told everyone,
while she manipulates and forces
you to believe you're guilty
of being embarrassed of her.

So you begin beating
on the closet doors,
every beating.
No one can hear your screams.
Part of you still doesn't want them to.

You could try calling the police,
but who would believe
a woman is beating another woman.
Besides,
there's no service in this closet.

You learn about domestic violence
from your parents.
They say they'd protect you.
But if they knew
they'd beat you back into silence.

If a tree
collapses in the middle of the forest
with bruises from someone
that isn't a husband,
or a boyfriend,
or a man at all,
Is she still a victim?
is the collision enough
to break down a closet door?