the closet was never a closet by Ian Smith
rather, a glass box under lights: ankles crossed daintily with braided rope, hanging like a slab of meat in the freezer. ears to the ground, hearing the whispers but never the noise; always the subject never a question about it. consider the luxury of hiding away what still needs time to metamorphosize; consider how warm a secret feels whispered into your hand. i wrote my name on the walls not as a sign of strength, but as a warning. look close, and peeking from beneath pant legs: the burn, still hissing. art | Maggie Brosnan fh 32
