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.
Copyright © Manya Saxena | Year Posted 2019
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