The skeletons in my closet are rattling,
awake by the smell of cologne, sweat,
and the urge of his growing vines,
and your beautiful voice.
I resist the ocean in his eyes as I fall onto another man's chest,
arching my back,
while perched on your broad shoulders.
This is not a pretty sight to open up to.
I'm sorry that you only get to know this in the future.
The skeletons in my closet are not real.
They are me.
They are all me.
I'm the closet they sleep in.
It's my bed that they sleep in
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