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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Read Another Story from 250 Words of Fear & Terror

The Soulless Sunrise Cover 512x800 The Grave Below My Bed Cover
The Voice on the Beach Cover 512x800 To Cheat the Reaper Cover

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Shea Oliver

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