Secret

I hid you in my closet
buried underneath the old clothes
that cluttered its confines.
There, beneath those tattered jackets,
faded jeans and wrinkled shirts,
you sat there, festering, rotting,
longing for the crisp, warm touch of
sunlight I denied you. Go on;
blame me for I deserve it.
You were the soiled laundry
I was too afraid to wash and
that closet was a prison
built solely for your demise.

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