remains

Let's start with the day the lies began. I was six when I discovered varied levels of truth. There is the out-and-out lie; the flat lie, used to drop an uncomfortable truth; the cover-up lie, used to divert blame. This is a sampling in the multi-vitamin of near truths.
For the sake of honesty, I am not a liar, but a hider. Closets and bathrooms have always been palaces of refuge, opposed to the communal setting of my bedroom. Years of twisted inroads have left me stranded a labyrinth of emotional refuse. After twenty odd years, I find torrents emotional repression leaking from the staunch seals of a self imposed regime. This is the crux of my difficulties. A newly seeded desire to experience a fuller spectrum of life— versus my deeply rooted need for secrecy.
All of this leaves me hostile. I am unwilling to openly address many of the layers, which I imagine hold me together. For if I did than where would I go? Closets and bathrooms would loose their power; I could easily say: 'no thank you very much". Like a parcel with wrapped in many colored papers, I savor the slow pealing back of skins. I examine each layer of paper shadow. Neatly folded, I put it in a box in the closet.