Sometimes, I open the doors—the closet has two white doors with cold and unfeeling handles—and dream of wearing my clothes. I have many clothes and most of them are hand-me-downs. On the far left, shoes hang on an organizer that’s falling apart, the seams popping under the weight of large shoes and the curse of time. I don’t think it smells but, perhaps, I’ve ignored the sent over the many, many years of being myself. Instead, it smells of dust and absence. I push aside some hangers as the screech on the metal and find the Black blouse from my mother resting next to the shoes with the other blouses. I never wear them—I can’t with the work I do. They’re next to the skirts and pants that I have for nice activities. Their longer than other’s would accept, but that’s fine because I like them and they would make me comfortable. The next are the dresses. Things I have to own for Church. I like dresses a lot, I just don’t like these ones. They’re boring, all business casual-like. They’re too modern. I hate them. I hate them all except for the purple dress on the far right that I never wear, too scared to touch it. I’ll reach out and touch it, considering to don it at that moment but, I know that I won’t. The smoothness of the fabric is a comfort, and the cut is unique. But, the harsh roughness of the attached pendant scares me. I will not wash it in fear, and in knowing this, I will not wear it. Instead, I disregard the dreamt up clothing and open the drawers beneath, pulling out ill-fitting jeans and a worn t-shirt. I pray that they won’t fall apart on me.