It is dark
Lonely
So hard to see
Breathe
Think.
Eighteen years,
this closet
has kept me
hidden.
Fear.
So much fear.
Has kept me trapped.
Trapped in this small dark place.
The closet.
I did not choose this life.
Or did I?
Regret.
Self-hate.
Self-harm.
Suicide.
Haunted me for over
Five years.
One thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five days.
I have spent questioning life.
I have spent carving into my skin.
I have been crying in bathroom stalls.
I have lived without living.
In a closet.
Why must sexuality define a person?
Why can I not like boys?
Why did this happen to me?
More hate.
Depression.
Anger.
But slowly,
recovery.
I can see a future.
I can see love.
I do not have to be in this
closet.
I did choose.
To be in this closet.
Who I am does not matter.
I can escape.
I can live.
Recovery,
Relapse,
Recovery,
Relapse,
Recovery....
The world is so bright
and promising.
Away from the closet
of my teenage years.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry. From the broken soul.
PoesíaPoetry written over a time span of over ten years. This includes some of my darkest and lightest moments and the stories of others. Most deal with topics such as suicide, depression, family, eating disorders, religion, self harm, acceptance, recover...
