closet-bwIt’s like noticing a stain
on your shirt, and somehow
all of the shirts
in your closet are stained.
So you have to choose
the one least incriminating,
cringing and wondering
if others will see what you see.
But then you think
I’m being ridiculous.
It’s just me.
No one else will see.
Then, just as you begin
to relax and chat,
in less than a minute, you see
their eyes migrate down
and you know
that they know
and are trying
not to be noticeable
in their knowing.
And every stain feels
indelible, inevitable,
and every bit of everything
you will ever own
gestates with anticipation
of when it will be ruined.


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