The Closet

My closet is organised from white to black

The bright shirts are hidden right at the back

They’re not ready to be worn, they’re quiet and still

They’re not ready to come out, I don’t know when they will

Sometimes I see them, out of the corner of my eye

A sleeve, a pocket, a men’s section tie

I want to reach in and try them on

But I’m told they won’t fit, they don’t belong

On a woman’s body that is made for a man

A match made in Heaven, God’s wonderful plan

But I can’t meet my match sitting on my closet floor

When there are scratches on the inside of my closet door

Then then you came in and turned on the light

I reached in and picked out something bright

A muddle of fabrics of assorted shades

Like the ones you see at the annual parades

My closet door is starting to crack

I don’t want to fix it, I can’t turn back

I want to tell them, to scream it to the stars

Shout it from the bridge, above the passing cars

What will they say, think, or feel?

Shall I mention it in passing, or over a meal?

I’ve learned that no time will ever feel right

To wear my true colours, but I think I just might