I try to convince myself,
that when I kiss her it's just practice.
The right guy will come
and I'll kiss him with purpose.
It hurts me,
to hurt her.
She thinks I'm ashamed of her
but I'm ashamed of myself.
So instead we speak in whispers.
In broken metaphors,
I encourage her to hide with me.
This closet is my cell
and my confusion,
the bars that hold me hostage.
My insecurity
locks her there with me.
