top of page

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.


2 views0 comments

Related Posts

See All

Comments


bottom of page