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