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Closet

 In this closet I hide: 

I pile my clothes—

the softest black, heaviest white,

bold pink, and dirty cream.


They say I embrace rainbows, 

They say I have the most welcoming windows.


I do, but love, I am more:

I am my brother’s heels that walk with him.

I am my sister’s BMX that she recklessly drives.


Their roles are my cigarette: 

I inhale the nicotine, 

I exhale the acetone that strips my cuticle.


In this closet, I dress with my favorite apparels:


Fitted trousers, Blouson jacket, cream shirt.


In the afternoon, I wear my father’s cap, my mother’s wig, and my vegan burgundy lipstick.


For everything that clothes me is a Lady Gaga song,

a Sufjan Stevens that knows my bereft childhood,

or a Sasha Sloan that gasps for air.


And at night, I sleep with my completely naked body, and as I touch my skin, 


I touch my most fragile dream.

Everyday is found in this decades-old closet,

But today you will find me outside its corners


as I shout my name with a filtered voice.

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