“This is Not an Exit” reads a paper sign crudely taped to a sliding convenience store door. The clerk’s eyes wander from the door to the flask of whiskey he’s hiding behind the counter—as if subconsciously making the connection. as if wishing that someone had told him the same thing. This is not an exit. The alcohol constantly permeating his body is not a way out. it doesn’t allow him the ability to leave. drunk or sober, it’s the same fucked up world. a constant drunken stupor won’t bring back the deceased. it won’t make her fingertips brush against his shoulder like they used to. it’s only a time machine in that it steals time. arms on his clock pass with his permission as he waits for his skin to shrivel and his hearing to wain. while all along he knows that this is not an exit.
“My hell is a closet I’m locked inside.” So much to say. So much to say. So much to say and no one to say it to. The day before my nineteenth birthday. I have waited damn near nineteen whole years of my life without telling anyone who I really am. Without telling potential loves how I really feel. I’m wondering how I could do this to myself. Now it’s almost too big to contain. I watch Ted from across the room. The voice of reason. The kind eyes and sincere smile. He would never judge. He wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. He’s a dude with no romantic interest in me, why would he? I’m debating silently whether it would be right to burden him with my secret. i’ve been afraid of burdening others all my life. if there’s anything i’ve learned in these eighteen years and 364 days, it’s that keeping quiet is what has led to my greatest unhappinesses. it’s not that others haven’t suspected. but maybe i’m just too good at lying— or maybe i’m completely transparent. i’ve always worn my heart on my sleeves. Not by choice, that’s just where my heart resides. Except in cases such as these. this is my hell.
