No way for anyone to look in,
to tell if it was light or dark inside.
No way to tell if things were quiet and still,
or if the house was about to explode.
If one wanted to see inside, they could,
but only if they had a key.
And that key, of course,
came from the owner.
And she was picky,
some would say too picky.
But why would anyone allow someone inside their house?
When they feared what those someones would think of it.
Those who were allowed inside may still have been tricked,
by the decoration adorning the house.
Lovely furniture disguised the warped floors,
and beautiful paintings covered deep cracks in its walls.
It was an old and tired house.
It had stood through many storms,
survived floods and earthquakes,
but that didn’t matter if it didn’t look nice.
And that’s all the visitors seemed to notice,
the pretty things,
the things the owner thought they wanted to share,
but upon leaving, they knew nothing of the house, only of its appearance.
The house used to have windows,
beautiful, big windows.
That golden sunlight would stream through,
kissing the inside.
But one day,
the wrong person looked through those windows
and they noticed the cracks, the imperfections.
So the owner boarded them up.
I live in a house with no windows.