Secrets of my being, secrets I’ve kept from myself.
Truths too painful to look at, covered in dust, buried without my consent, memories of me, buried from me, buried by me.
I’m cloaked in midnight. I extracted literal, concentrated midnight, fashioned it into fabric, and cloaked myself in it. And what of my desire to be seen? How, pray tell, am I to be known like this?
These competing desires to be known or to fade into obscurity. These competing desires to hide or to shine. These competing desires to love or to run.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 