A Question I Ask Because I Won’t Look For Myself
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The question seems simple to you.
Yes, with my eyes I can see
But never into my own do I peer
So, I ask this question: what color are my eyes?
I knew when I was a boy
I knew when I was a teen
Then it all happened, and I forgot.
It started with the knife in my hand
It started with the dead body at my feet
It started with a sick satisfaction
I felt a rush of pleasure beyond description.
Fulfillment of my darkest cravings
One thrust of my knife after another
Blood splattering and horrified screams
A life in my hands extinguished.
You’ll call me a murderer
And you’ll be correct
For I took a life
For the briefest of moments, panic consumed me.
What had I done?
Can it be undone?
Who had I become?
Forgive me now for what I share.
Panic left me alone with my deed
His dead eyes looked directly at me
Stared at me in the wrong way
I carved them free from his head.
Ended that accusation he cast
Forth from his eyes
Never to plague me again
Yet, his were not the only ones.
More eyes tormented my soul
Leered at me in the wrong way
Pierced me with judgment
What else could I do?
My knife sang its song
Brought death to those
Who looked at me wrong
Now you know my dilemma.
For what would happen
If I looked into my own eyes
the wrong way
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