Untitled Document

Coming Out

I look for the door quite often now;

you know, the door to the garden at the back of the wardrobe.
I bloody my fingers with fruitless searching,
feeling the cracks
for splinters of childhood.

But years of waiting
nuzzled by frock coats,
have dulled my touch. I can't get back there.

I'm faced instead with the door marked 'Exit.'
The sign glows brighter as you move towards it.

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