My eyes are the most beautiful 

when I am crying.

I’ve always admired the irony in that.

At my lowest point, my eyes contrast the misery flamed inside me.

They must know something I don’t.

transforming into a foreign blue.

Bright

and mesmerizing

Perhaps it’s the surrounding bloodshot that makes them so striking,

like the girl standing in the middle of her crumbled world;

the beauty in a whirlwind of chaos.

Or maybe it’s because they’re the only hope I have at that point,

that everything will be okay.

Maybe they have just grown accustomed to the fact that I need something 

to reassure me that this suffering will not persist.

Your eyes are not made to see.

They are made to wonder

They are made to dream

And above all made to hope 

They possess the ability to fixate on the light flickering, obstructed by the grief

that may drag on you and

Pull your eyes down to the floor as you walk.

The grief that arrogantly struts believing in its complete power over me, 

grinds me into submission like a dog. 

My eyes hold a baffling strength 

My muscles clench in jealousy 

They illuminate my hope. 

A power only visible to those willing to look for it.

as I sit with my back to the door on my bed

I can see myself in the mirror 

and I am stricken by the beauty in a whirlwind of chaos.