closet.

when you step out of your suicidal closet.
fold the doors back like last seasons laundry,
everyone will already be wearing you funeral on their shoulders,
look at you like you are already a ghost,
like all the thin parts of you are taking over-
you'll be about as thick skinned as your last attempt at a poem.
everyone will take you as a chance to be a messiah.
everyone will try to save you
to feel the christ in themselves,
feel the cross in their back bones.
their empty prayers will cover you like a wool blanket.
their preaching will gently press your eyes closed.
when you make the mistake of letting your diary entries spill from your mouth like a mudslide,
when home is the last place that feels like one,
when you have to use your depression to convince everyone of the savior inside of themselves,
remember your hiding place.
there will always be a darkness waiting to fold you back into itself,
cradle you like a mother,
wrap around you like an oversized-sweater,
the edges creased,
so they're tidy for when you finally decided to come back.