The Closet
Does it count as hiding in a closet if you don’t know how to get out?
If you’re ace and pan at the same time
If you peel back your skin, will the answers we seek lie within?
The colors of the flag are too loud and too cold. Too empty and too sweet-ironically aromatic
For an aromantic.
The closet is too bright
I don’t want to see my clothes.
They define the parts of me not meant to be.
Gender is a construct constructed by cloth.
Are you assuming my gender?
Vouloir c’est pouvoir
Encouraging words tangle in my hair and I cut it off, pretending that I don’t care.
The bitter colors of love remind me that I’m not one of the above.
The hangers whisper, “You’ll never reach me.”
And it’s pitiful how you stand up and try anyway.
If Joy could figure it all out,
Would (s)he be Joy at all?
I thought it was a closet but it’s really a maze.
But am I looking for the heart of it or the way out?