She's the Skeleton in My Closet - Beyond Queer Words

Most people fight to keep their love alive, I labour differently; continuously nailing mine in an upright coffin. I must: preserve her cheeks pale, heart cold and eyes unblinking. She's the skeleton in my closet.

Foreboding of a confession, forbidden obsession, every time her name brushes past my lips. A real kiss might be less obvious.

Secrecy threatens to lessen. Do I shiver – fearful or invigorated? It's as if she, I have killed, ‘Come out with it!’, guilt weighs heavy. That, with Pride, ‘Look how I've made her mine’.

They must never discover the vivacity in her bones; for that is to know my own heart that beats against them, along with my butterflies trapped within.

Should they observe how she almost blushes or blinks, more gaze than glazed-over when she looks at me – should they know of the life I inspire within her; I would faster claim the title of Murderess.

Taking her out, becomes just that; a narrative easier for them to digest.

They would faster tie the knot, eternal in our stomachs than our hands.

My sexuality is not, but is limited to: an outfit change, reasonable only to hook-up in the closet.

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