Standing in front of the antique mirror,
practicing singing
with a Robert Smith expression,
I can't help but smile
at the blue leopard-print shirt
that hangs off all the right curves
and hangs over all the ones I don't want.

The floor, the closet,
the open shelves,
are all a mass of clothes.
It must be a teen thing, huh?
Except that,
by law,
I'm adult.

Nothing quite matches,
though some of it tries.
and it all does its best
to express what's inside
of this too-short
too-feisty
grrl in the mirror.

Not a little girl playing dress-up;
that's just what I used to think.
Opening a closet
to reveal nothing but black
and black and black and black
and black and black and black
and black and black
and s'more black.
There had been its time and place,
of course,
as everything has
its time and place.

My mother always said
that black was a phase.
With that, she implied
I would grow to be normal.
And it's not as though black
has been phased out yet.
Things are just expanding.
Perhaps far too quickly.

You see, my closet
is a very confused little thing.
Velvet-touch cloak
and metallic red "wings".
Band shirts and silk
and argyle and plaid
with the occasional leopard-print
shirt or leash.
Things that are way too long,
things that are way too torn,
things that no one else
would be seen in
in public.

Now my mother accuses me
of being a romantic,
what with my interest
in flowing, frilly sleeves.

This was the woman who accompanied me
on the wild romp
that ended with a stretchy blue leopard shirt,
a very classy black skirt
with asymetrical hem,
and a silky cotton shirt
with all the right clings.

I wrinkle my nose at myself in the mirror,
not exactly sure what I am today.
It seems that my closet
isn't the only one that's confused,
but a little confusion
won't hurt anyone.