Abstract
Being in the closet is never an easy thing. It might look like turning away and avoiding the struggles of being different might be a better alternative. But to hide oneself over long periods of time is a lonely and challenging thing to do and an extremely solitary place to be in. This poem is a window towards that bleak solitude which many of us has experienced atleast once in our lives, irrespective of being queer or not.
Poem
Locked in fog,
So thick it looks painted on me
In the color of dread,
That even I can't see myself,
Trembling out of fear or frost
In that jolly-looking mask of paint,
Hiding the ME
In that pretty little cave
Actually, the leaky little cave.
The Mask? The Cave? The Fog?
All so cold and dry,
Except for the tears, bitter in torment,
I never knew,
Choking and leaking off ME,
Blanketing and stinging my fingers
Smeared in cold
Numb in the chill,
Closing on ME,
Coloured in terror,
Dimly longing for warmth
For home...
But afraid all the same
Afraid to leave the Fog
Out of the Cave,
Called the CLOSET.
Locked in fog painted on me
In the color of dread
Conditioned to hide in the leaky little cave,
Unbeknown of my right to venture beyond,
Of the light beyond
I stand weary and drained
From the agony
Of the rejection of ME
Chaining me to the Fog,
Remote and deserted
Obscuring ME, forsaken and despondent,
Trembling in that jovial mask of paint
Only to ask, "Why?"
With an answer as foggy
And blue as the CLOSET,
The only home for ME,
Ever...
