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The Color of My Own Eyes

I’ve never really known the color of my own eyes. Anytime I’ve been asked, I’ve marked on the line that they’re hazel but I don’t think that’s right. There’s a little bit of blue, a little bit of green, but the scene I take in when I look at my face’s reflection aren’t the eyes, it’s the space right beneath them.

Sight distracted by thick bands of black shadow, like a tidal wave threatening the coastline of my corneas, heavy bags that drag the skin and sallow the eyes down deep in their socket a locket reminding me I’m always exhausted and no amount of sleep the night prior ever stops it. I wear permanent make-up, affixed by a world that runs me ragged even on days where I do nothing substantial, nothing important, with life at a stand-still yet the mirror doesn’t lie.

And everytime I wash my hands, it’s the black bands I notice when I look at my own face. I look for the beauty, I try to find the sparkle behind the iris, but my mind demands I focus on the always encroaching darkness.

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