There’s a window. I look through it. Pressing my nose on the glass. Staring through—as others stare through my soul—so intent that the other side is better. 

The view is a little foggy, sure, but the pictures in my head make up for any lack of reality. 

The glass may be a little cracked, but nowadays, what isn’t?

And yeah, when I pressed my hand against the surface, it was cold from the icy surroundings, and when I touched further, I winced unable to contain the torment its frosty texture brought me, but that’s just its exterior. Inside is warm. I just know it. 

The border was sharp, intimidating really. It seemed to say “enter if you dare.”

So I didn’t in an attempt to save myself anymore suffering. 

And the curtains, potentially the only pretty thing about the appearance of the window aside from what was behind it, were dainty— probably had some elegant lace trim, the kind you would find on your grandma’s wedding dress. 

They draped all the way down to the floor, and if I stare hard enough, it looks as if there is someone behind them.

But their only purpose was not just to take something scary and make it appear “ok” to the general public,

but rather it was there to keep onlookers such as myself from being able to see the full potential of the other side.

It locked me out in such a polite manner that I didn’t even mind.

But even these immaculately placed curtains can’t keep me from trying to make it,

so, I look through this hazed over, slightly broken, sharp-edged, curtained window, and I just want to open it. 

Let the light in.

Let me in.

But it is locked, 

and you threw away the key.