It is said the eyes are window to the soul. Maybe that’s why I evade anyone looking into mine- unpretty and relentless. a spiraling bottomless staircase and darkness that’s closing in, only to expand when death seems the only release from the freezing cold protecting my wounded soul. But there’s no inherent evil in there. It will threaten, frighten, but not kill anyone trespassing,
unlike you. ‘Cause well, it’s my head and I live there so I should know. But, my eyes aren’t all that beautiful- traced in violet decorated with little flecks of green mixed into a medium brown iris, fx mostly invisible @ a distance- like I try to be and fail to do. I think it’s ’cause of the red curls. I recently learned I will never be sanitized enough for you anyway, no wonder my worth lies somewhere after zero to the left of our point.
Yet my eyes… They don’t float above my fair skinned face like your gorgeous blue/gray irises do! Like an oasis, vibrant pools of sky-water sometimes turning to mini gray skies on your face of porcelain.
A g aze that still turns my blood cold. I always wanted eyes like that though, which I faked with lenses until my irises screamed in pain. And, I hate that your precious eyes are such a deceitful window to what lies within. I’m your personna-non-grata par excellence. But i’m real or so I try to be. And as I cry myself to sleep, I can still hear your laughter and mockery.