I hide things in my closet,
like mist on a clear day—
quiet, almost invisible,
but always there.
The rope still hangs
from my last attempt,
brushed up against the dress
I was going to wear to the school dance—
the black one
with the mesh sleeves.
A box of cigarettes
I only touch on Monday nights at one.
Empty cans of Monster
I line up like memories I don’t throw away.
My art—
the kind my mother never lets me paint.
A version of myself
most people will never meet.
Poetry I meant to send you,
but never did.
A mirror I cracked in seventh grade
from staring at my face
for far too long.
My dusty Doc Martens
I bought in secret.
I keep a lot of things
in that closet—
secrets, pain, truth,
the real version of me.
I’m scared of what people would say
if they ever saw it all,
so I keep it locked away,
hidden for the better—
where no one can find the key
and no one has to see
who I really am.