Broken Metaphors

A closeted poem.

I try to convince myself,

that when I kiss her it’s just practice.

The right guy will come

and I’ll kiss him with purpose.

 

It hurts me,

to hurt her.

She thinks I'm ashamed of her

but I'm ashamed of myself.

 

So instead we speak in whispers.

In broken metaphors,

I encourage her to hide with me.

 

This closet is my cell

and my confusion,

the bars that hold me hostage.

 

My insecurity

locks her there with me.

Author's Note

Any feedback is appreciated.