A poem about my teenage drawer

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.

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