My closet is a metaphor for my life.
When I clean my room I shove everything in there.
I shut the doors and put the mess out of site.
When my mom comes to inspect she sees nothing but a tidy room.
She has no idea what hides right beneath the surface.
She can't see the dirty laundry I'm hiding behind the doors, but then again, she isn't looking very closely either.
My brain works in a similar manner to my closet.
I shove in all of my worries; pile them in and then embroider a smile across my mouth so they can't come spilling out.
As inspection comes around, they see a happy girl.
They see my smile and assume that all is well, just as my mother sees my closed closet doors and assumes all is clean.
I fucking hate my closet.
