It's not a closet
Or at least it isn't yet
It's like a foggy forest
Except that doesn't work, either
Since I find those calming
It's like being in a dark cave
Not knowing what's in there
Nothing too bad
Since it hasn't killed you
And therefore won't anytime soon
But still
Or perhaps the better metaphor
Is it's a library
With no labels telling you what genre
Anything is
So you're left
With no terminology
No comforting label
To make you feel secure in yourself
Maybe this is pointless
For there is no scenario
That shows how
How odd it can be
Not knowing this one
Specific part of you
It's ill at ease
Occasionally causing
Mild panic and tears
The hateful worry
That you don't know your identity
All I can say is
It's Not A closet
Not even close
So. . .context: It's been a while since I wrote something, and I'm in the mood to post something real, so this a poem I wrote over the summer when I was deeply questioning my sexuality. Pt.2 may come soon. I dunno, take what you will of this. Or spin it in a different way to fit your own life. Poems are subjective as fuck
-Cloudy
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Galen Hotel
General FictionGalen Hotel is filled with. . .odd guests. Though I suppose that's what you get when the hotel is made for fictional characters. (Some from me, Cloudy others from other published authors.) It is up to Mari, Jodi and Laura to keep things calm and ste...
