living without a closet

i didn’t know living 

without a closet would 

feel so… unearthed. 

as if someone scraped the layers 

of me back with a vegetable peeler, 

and now me and my clothes 

and my belongings 

are a nude carrot.

 

my jeans are stacked 

in crates, blue crayons bleeding 

from the corner of my room:

bare. the people in my life know 

too much about me, 

the different patterned shirts 

i don’t even wear, strung 

like classroom skeletons contorted 

into colors that have never draped 

my body. and junk, the things 

that come in handy three times a year, 

need a place to go— 

no dark spot exists with a quick convenient door 

to trap them. 

 

the liquid fabric of my life 

no longer has sharp edges 

and a crisp bow. 

socks can’t fit into drawers, and shoes 

spill into hallways. 

i’m not contained, 

not in comfort, 

not coloring inside of the lines. 

 

but now i’m visible. 

 

By Anna Scott

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