My Eyes.
A small free-writing thing that was born very late last night. It's...not happy. Also...I think I did work for therapy without even realizing it...
My Eyes.
My eyes are brown. Their lids are painted with olive green and hazelnut brown, and lined with black. They see the world in shades of antique ivory and mottled gold. But, that changes with the season and the mood and the direction of the wind.
My eyes are damaged. They are not quite round enough, and require glasses. My glasses are valuable, thin frames of black plastic that sharpen the blur of my most imperfect sense. Fuzzy edges, confusion, and jumbled letters are common without them.
My eyes see things differently. I look in my mirror, the one surrounded on all four sides by beautiful antique wood, and I see imperfection. Always; from the same mirror that made my mother want to not eat. The same imperfections, like a body that is the wrong shape and skin marred with the marks of my low self esteem, too many to count.
So maybe it's not my eyes. Maybe it's the mirror. Or maybe it's just me.
My Eyes.
My eyes are brown. Their lids are painted with olive green and hazelnut brown, and lined with black. They see the world in shades of antique ivory and mottled gold. But, that changes with the season and the mood and the direction of the wind.
My eyes are damaged. They are not quite round enough, and require glasses. My glasses are valuable, thin frames of black plastic that sharpen the blur of my most imperfect sense. Fuzzy edges, confusion, and jumbled letters are common without them.
My eyes see things differently. I look in my mirror, the one surrounded on all four sides by beautiful antique wood, and I see imperfection. Always; from the same mirror that made my mother want to not eat. The same imperfections, like a body that is the wrong shape and skin marred with the marks of my low self esteem, too many to count.
So maybe it's not my eyes. Maybe it's the mirror. Or maybe it's just me.