The anxiety of being caught makes my heart thrum like a hummingbird.
Someday I will be discovered. I will be found out!
I peak through the crack in the door of the closet I have shoved myself. It’s stuffy and I can barely breath.
How long will I stay inside? It seems like it has been a lifetime in here already.
And in truth, it has.
It’s been so long that I can’t even remember the first time I stepped into the closet of self loathing to hide from the world. I send out my best representative, the “Allison-bot”, who knows what to say, is always funny and never has armpit stains.
The part of me that smells, bleeds and says the wrong thing hangs out in the closet trembling while she peaks through the cracks in the door.
Why am I so nervous?
Because I am a fugitive on the run from intimacy and the fear of showing those pit stains and blood.
I anticipate rejection and so I reject sentencing myself to a life squished in a closet filled with all the things i feel most ashamed of.
What would happen if i threw open the door and jumped to the foreground?
Naked. Raw. Cellulite jiggling. Moles exposed.
My leg is cramping and I feel myself outgrowing this hiding spot. I am tired of being a voyeur.
I want to live my life.
I feel the rush of adrenaline.
Am I willing to be brave and jump out from behind the door and test the hypothesized destruction?
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exposethecriminals ago
I found it on archive.org: