A Closet Sanctuary.

January 25, 2020

 

I’m a closet smoker, a closet drinker, a closet abuser.

I destroy the precious purpose of a closet.

I shall now forge a new purpose.

A closet sanctuary.

 

No clothes could hide my insecurities. 

No lipstick or eyeliner could hide my pain.

Yes, my den is a closet.

 

When I was 8,

I hid from my imaginary cop that was to handcuff me, 

for stealing the apples from my grandmother’s refrigerator.

I hid inside a closet.

When I was 12,

I was playing hide and seek with my sister one night,

I hid behind a closet in my mother’s room,

Where I learnt that my father and mother slept on the same bed.

I truly regret that moment.

When I was 16,

The popular girls at school tried to bully me.

I wished I was inside a closet.

When I was halfway through with being 16,

I spoke to the very first boy on a smart phone.

My parents convinced me and my sister, phones were for older and behaved children.

I was the wild child. My sister was the ‘I will go and tell mommy’ child.

I hid between the gap of the wall and cupboard.

The walls threw back the echoes of my sweet voice rambling on about what type of boys I liked.

My sister heard me and told on me and I wasn’t allowed a phone for eternity. 

At least that’s what my mother said.

When I was 18,

I borrowed my father’s whiskey bottle and hid inside the closet and spoke to a boy.

More like stole but we are in the same household so I prefer to say I borrowed.

A step up, I presumed.

I drunk cut myself that day accidentally with the wine glass. 

Yes you heard me right I drank whiskey from a wine glass.

When I was 19,

I found out just before carving my one sided lover’s name on the wooden closet,

I had done the exact same thing when I was 17 years old, with a different boy’s name.

I painted over both names when I became 20.

I am 22 now,

The bottom left hand side of the closet is filled with three boxes filled with old memories, not clothes.

So I could take them out and put them back in whenever my parents chose to barge in.

 

I visit the closet sometimes.

The closet, a small space adequate for my size still; I’m a 4.11 now.

It is a flashback of the times I cried, the times I hid and the times I celebrated on my own.

Sometimes the torch was the only light I knew in the darkness.

It saw me when no one else saw me.

I spoke a lot with an imaginary friend. 

He is dead and forgotten now. I guess he roams around still hoping I would remember him.

 

I’m a closet smoker, a closet drinker, a closet abuser.

I destroy the precious purpose of a closet.

I shall now forge a new purpose.

A closet sanctuary

 

No clothes could hide my insecurities. 

No lipstick or eyeliner could hide my pain.

Yes, my den is a closet.

That small space adequate for my size.

 

 

 

Kaviru Samarawickrama

Kaviru Samarawickrama is an artist and poet who finds refuge in dealing with trauma and misfortune through painting and writing. She is currently employed at one of the leading art galleries in Colombo and is pursuing postgraduate studies in the field of Information Technology. Her energetic and spontaneous personality has always been a catalyst through which inspiration is later born in her poetic compositions. When in high spirits, she’s a sight to see (and hear) at numerous open mics, a commanding presence through her creativity.

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