Trapped in the darkness of a closet of my own making.
The four walls hold hangers but no clothes.
The lies of fights past sneak up behind me;
insults tapped my shoulder before your
warm kiss pressed against my neck.
I’m a walking contradiction, striking
matches, wondering which of us
will catch fire. A self-fulfilling prophecy
warns me I burned the future.
We’ve got but minutes to exchange farewells.
What we said in bed, we didn’t mean.
Panic in my head flooded us with windburned sins.
The window to my soul shows progress;
you see it, too — it draws a tear to your lip
and a smile in your eyes.
(© 2022 AC)