5. The Closet Was a Church I built a sanctuary out of silence and shame. The closet was where I learned to pray— not to be gay, not to be seen, not to be known. It smelled of denim and mothballs, and I’d sit there, knees to chest, reciting psalms I wrote in my own blood. “Please, God. Please, God. Make me disappear.” But He didn’t. And thank God for that.