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.
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.