A Window

The first time that he touched me, He told me that I was a window, standing, raw and bare, waiting to welcome anyone or anything that passed me by. He told me that, everyone was to be embraced within the warm home of my body and I tried to do that. I remember, hating it, hating myself, hating this world but he said that it will all make sense and I listened. The next time that he touched me, I touched him too and tried to make him realize the pain, the agony, the resistance but he seemed to relish it like his salmon. He told me that I was like a window, radiant and reachable and quivering the sun that rose above us. I took up a knife and drew flowers on my body because I thought I deserved it. I felt my system failing, my brain shutting and my limbs giving up. The next time that he touched me, I took that godforsaken knife and made flowers on his body, to let him know that my body is mine and not a piece of meat, firm and tender. I wasn't raw or bare or warm. I was a window but with metal panes, cage to only welcome the stars, the light, the flowers. I was a window but not a door that welcomes everyone or everything. I was a window but not as he thought I was and I wrote this on his body as he left. “I am, indeed, A window”, I said to myself as I shut myself close.