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