I knew where everything was in my drawer.
That’s how I could tell
when someone started rooting
for evidence I’m a Jezebel.
That someone thought they owned
my every thought, my every move.
If she didn’t choreograph it,
she’d seek only to disapprove.
I’m not the tidiest of people:
my pants mingled with my socks.
But I still had to be clever
though she thought she could outfox.
Looking back I feel rage
that I never had that safety
of a drawer to call my own.
But to challenge was controversy
so I kept a necessary quiet,
tolerated her invasive checks.
But I suspect it might’ve been envy
or a dark personality complex.
Either way, I’m through with drawers
for hiding what might be secret.
Find what you will, let your nose lead the way.
I’m not the one living with regret.