Walls

My walls are bare. She told me I need to put up something to liven the room. There are two windows, in three sections, appearing as if barred. Curling vines drape one window. I do have a simple splash of green on the wall, and my handmade quilt is beautiful. There is a mirror above my whitewashed dresser, and candles burn dimly, warmly. A mess litters the floor, and I don't try to hide.

My walls are my walls, and I am my walls, and I have got nothing to hide. My room is who I am, and if bare and plain it is, so am I. But you are not looking deep enough if that is all you find.

I am bare. The only things people tell me to put up are my breasts. I loathe wearing a bra, and I enjoy being free. My walls are me, and I am my walls, and I've got nothing to hide. I'm plain old me, and I am calm, and serene. I am beautiful. I have two windows, and you can see right through me, and within the two windows to my soul you'll find a splash of color, green. And further down, if you look through my windows, a steady flame burns. Beautiful clothing, handmade I say, a pure representation of me. My walls might be plain, and boring to you, but they surround me and never leave.

Why is the glass barred? The explanation might be that those bars lock me in, or keep you out. I'd like to say they hold my soul in place, keep me steady, but the truth is that the simple turn of a clasp opens them wide. Daily I swing them open! They are free, and the wind blows them to and fro, and the sweet smell of earth fills my room.

If you look inside me, some semblance of yourself might be reflected. I'm simple, in so many ways. If the curls block the view, brush them to the side, but gently. You'll see the sunshine.

My walls are me, and I am my walls. Nothing less, nothing more.

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