Coming Out

I was alone, so utterly, devastatingly alone. I existed in the dark, feeling like I would never be able to truly be myself. I wanted to die. I thought about nothing else but dying. I hated this world and I hated myself. I had always been confined to the very back of the closet, invisible and unwanted.

But then I met you.

You pulled me out of the closet, unwilling as I was, but you didn’t care. No. You yanked me out of the closet like I was a long lost friend whom you hadn’t seen in a lifetime. You didn’t give a damn what I was; no, you accepted me for what I was, even liked me as such. You’d tell me all your secrets, and I’d share all of mine. We’d laugh and cry together. We had a connection the likes of which I don’t think I’ll ever experience again.

Do you remember all those times we danced around the kitchen? Sometimes we’d sing together, too, though neither of us had a singing voice, and occasionally we’d play air guitar together, looking just as silly possible. We didn’t care. It was the greatest time of my life. I’ve never felt so alive. And the parties were so grand. I loved preparing for them with you. I never really cared for the guests, but it didn’t matter, I still couldn’t wait for the next one to prepare for. I could always feel your excitement and joy preparing for them, and it brought me so much excitement and joy.

And little Johnny—oh God little Johnny—I loved him so. He was always so glad to see me. We’d play together for hours. He never cared what I was. He never even asked; such is the innocence of children. We’d play horsy together and have these epic sword fights that seemed to last for hours, but he did grow out of it eventually. I miss those times.

Do you remember that fight? The one where you threw the glass against the wall and it shattered into a million pieces all over the dining room? We cleaned it up together and we both cried the entire time. I offered to clean it myself, but you would have none of that. We always did those things together. I knew we’d always be together.

But something changed. You… lost interest in me. What did I do? Have we drifted apart? Has my horrible singing voice finally clawed on your nerves to the point that you no longer like me? Do you not love me anymore? Is that other guy so much better than I am? The guy I saw you dancing with through the crack in the door? Did you even know I was there? I don’t understand.

I have realized one thing, however, as I sit here on the curb in the rain crying my eyes out, waiting on the garbage man to come collect me. And what’s more, my brother dust pan agrees and we have a plan. That Swiffer mother fucker must die.