Green Eyes

Just this morning, when the sun first entered the space of darkness that hugged this street, those brightly brushed houses pretended to be grey. I marvelled at how such a blurry color could appear sharp like the corner on each window sill. They stood like a structured fog that did not bide by the whims of the wind—a force that stood to divert everything else but my gaze.

Color bled into the houses as the sun lolled higher into the sky. I became sicker the more my own eyes became green in the morning sunrise. The unstoppable light was taking control of me.

I shambled from my bed with an overcoming sense of purpose. Every step hurt. My face collapsed in a smear against the window. I struggled and panted condensated breaths on the window pane.

A wonderful stiffness alleviated my pain. The fine grains of my soul were sifted away—but I had to stay behind. Trapped.

I remain slumped on the window feeling judged, stripped, and punished. Does the little boy who found my body know I can see him?

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