Closets Are Made of Midwestern Thunderstorms

Taking off my clothes

feels like peeling off parts of

myself as if  I’m a butterfly

with its wings sheared to conform

into a caterpillar. I’ve stolen

enough of my brother’s shirts to

have forgotten what wearing the right sized

clothes is like. But nothing fits as well as Dad’s

Grand Canyon T-shirt. My parents went

hiking there when Mom was pregnant

so that I could experience a wonder

of the world just like I was to her.

I strip my dirty socks from my feet,

strip off  the too-small sports bra biting into

my ribs. I haven’t had the courage to buy

a binder yet, since there’s a high chance

of  Mom finding it. So fitting myself into

things too small and too big to hide

everything I find uncomfortable about

my body is a last resort. But all bets

are off when I’m showering, when

the water pools in my collarbones until it

teardrops over my curves and down,

down the drain, my daydream of a different

gender along with it.

I have my floor-length mirror covered

in the blanket my girlfriend gave

me the first time we picnicked

in Central Park. It reminds me of lemon

tarts and the festered parts of

myself I keep counted with the pennies

in the coin jar she gave me so I’d

stop apologizing for existing.

The first time I tried to appear

androgynous was when I was fif-

teen. Mom used to pester me if I

wore anything that didn’t fit perfectly,

so I hadn’t had a chance to see what I

felt like in something that didn’t

curve my chest and flare my hips—

until my brother pushed me playfully into the East

River on a scorching July day and gave

me his Baruch hoodie in apology.

After, I caught glimpses of my reflection

in the rain puddles underneath Brooklyn

Bridge and found myself not flinching

away at what I saw: broad shoulders,

straight-cut build, lanky arms, and

too-small wrists cuffed in fabric.

Something in my chest bloomed

that day—a butterfly with wings

fluttering a bit to let me

know it was there, and always had

been, waiting for me.

The next day, I dragged my brother to

a thrift shop near Union Square and

bought every oversized hoodie

and affordable pair of baggy jeans that

didn’t slip over my hips.

I didn’t have the courage to wear

those clothes until picture

day, when my girlfriend purposely spilled

her lemonade on the dress Mom made

me wear. Have my hoodie, she’d said.

I think you’ll feel better in it. I had.

And that butterfly slowly crawled

against my ribs, a paintbrush letting me

feel all the colors a soul is made of.