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.