The first time somebody asked me whether I was queer or not,
I was under denial, I had never known the true meaning of queer, so,
I lied.
I lied because the truth scared me,
I lied because neither them nor I could handle the truth, out there.
The second time someone asked me whether I was queer or not,
I was afraid of my own growing feelings, I was experiencing a catalytic change, so,
I lied.
I lied because the truth scared me,
I lied because neither them nor I could handle the truth, out there.
The third time somebody asked me whether I was queer or not,
I knew they cannot accept me as I am, I was not their “normal” kind, so,
I lied.
I lied because the truth scared me,
I lied because neither them nor I could handle the truth, out there.
And I have lied, ever since.
My closet is a library, with nested closets filled with epics and love stories of that my heart wishes it would recreate, in this heteronormative world.
My closet frees me, my closet restricts me.
My closet has windows to the world, with beautiful serene views of acceptance, tranquillity, love and light.
My closet wreaks of fear, loneliness and anxiety, the never-ending hysteria of being “different”.
My closet has photos of all the people I loved and desired.
My closet has ashes of all the love letters I burnt.
My closet has memories of all the people I used to be.
My closet smells of passion and love, contaminated with regret and guilt.
My closet has survived inquisitive conversations, unwanted and unsolicited advances, curious hands and more than curious eyes.
My closet echoes of my laughs and my cries; of my screams and my sighs; of peace and revolution.
My closet is a gorgeous cage.
My closet has no doors, how do I get out?
My closet is suffocating me!
HOW DO I GET OUT?
