You walk in the front door, and the first thing you notice is that my home is a mess. Stuff is strewn about everywhere, nothing is put away. But this isn’t just the mess of carelessness, no, there’s a reason it looks ransacked. Looking around, you see that reason.
There are no closets in my home.
The front door had “shy,” “awkward” and “introvert” written all over it, but the doorbell proudly announced “nice guy” with a footnote specifying “not that kind of nice guy.”
In the main room you see “childlike,” “daydreamer,” and “gamer” scattered all over the floor, shelves stuffed full of “bookworm.” A huge box overflows with “collector” and the occasional “hoarder.”
The kitchen has “wants to cook” shelved right next to “can’t cook.” The “out-of-shape” in the fridge has gone bad but I haven’t thrown it out yet.
The walls in the hall are plastered with posters proudly proclaiming “pacifist” “idealist” “atheist” “humanist” with a space next to it which a sticky note says is reserved for “transhumanist” when it arrives in the mail. “Nihilist” lies on the floor and “existentialist” has taken its place.
Careful up the stairs, try not to trip on the “ambitious.”
The spare room is where I store a big “whatever you call the gender-flipped equivalent of a moderate tomboy” that takes up way more space than it should. There’s another thing squeezed in next to it, I don’t quite know what it is. Depending on the angle, sometimes it looks like “straight,” other times it looks like “pansexual,” “heteroflexible” or “asexual.” I’ll figure it out some day. A banner saying “ally” hangs on the wall.
I have a studio. The computer’s playing a screensaver that alternates between “nerd” and “geek.” There are sketchbooks full of “artist” but also “can’t draw” and “perfectionist.” “Poet” and “writer” are scattered everywhere.
Bathroom’s here if you need it. The mirror is marked with “low self-esteem” and there’s a shiny new “self-harm” sitting next to the sink. Thankfully, its packaging is still sealed.
The bedroom is especially messy. You can’t see the floor under all the “depression” “solitude” “morbid” and “insomnia.” At least there’s a bit of “hopeful” on the pillow.
And that’s the grand tour. I’ve shown you everything in my home.
But you saw something else. A door the same color as the wallpaper, tucked away in a corner. You ask what’s in there, I pretend not to see the door. You point it out, I insist I’ve never opened it before. You move to open it, I admit that I know what’s in there, and I know you should leave that door closed. I lead you gently but firmly away.
But then I trip over some “control freak,” and while I go to put it in it’s proper place you open the door and peek inside.
It’s a closet. I won’t say what you see inside.
You turn to flee, and bump into me. I see the open door and know what you saw. I close the door and explain that it’s tame. It won’t leave the closet unless I take it out, and it would never, ever hurt anyone.
But still, you can never look at me the same, not after seeing what’s in my one closet.