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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