I remember my days as a child. I was so excited about everything, all the time. The world was a bright beautiful sunflower and I was ready to pluck her from the ground and stick her in my hair. But then I grew up, and life got harder. My health posed problems, my mind turned against me, and people carelessly took my heart as if it was theirs to keep. I still think the world is a beautiful flower, but one with thorns, one that I sometimes feel like I no longer want to pick up. I wrote this at one of those times.
I am the windows in an old house
painted shut
never to be opened again
nice, in my glory, I could open up to the world
letting in all the light
and the leaves
and the sound of the birds
now I am stuck
glued to the frame like paper to a wall
none of you truly know why they decided to close me up
especially not forever
but closed I am
maybe it was time
maybe it was weather
maybe it was war
the house is old you know
it's been here for a long time
and so have I
I've seen all the strife of the ages
such that the tenants now will never know
maybe that is why I am so closed
maybe the light too harsh for me
maybe the leaves too heavy
maybe the sound too piercing
you see me
you see that I let in the sun
you see that I offer a view of the trees
you see that I allow the muffled sounds of life
you admire what I can offer you
a piece of the world
through the comfort of your room
but I do not give you what you want
not exactly
you grow anxious
and frustrated
wanting more
and more
and more
but I cannot give it to you
I am sorry
I wish I could
I remember when I could
oh how I wish I could
you grow too angry
I understand
you tell me you must leave
you must go see the whole picture
and I can only offer you a piece
the rain rolls down my panes as I watch you leave
if only you knew what made me close
but it happened so long before you
before you moved in
before you unpacked all your belongings
before you made my space your own
I was already painted shut
