I could die in this closet tonight and no one would know until tomorrow around noon. Look right through me.
I won’t do it. It’s too mundane and makes too much sense right now. And I know that what makes sense now is crazy. So I won’t follow the crazy. But I am staying in my closet for now.
I’m in the hangers. I have too much. Stuff. Shame. Fear. Anger. Grief. Resentment. Fraudulence. I am never who I pretend to be.
But I do not know who I am, so the pretending is easy. Pens and poems and sadness do not a human make.
Right? Or am I wrong?