She
looked into my eyes and observed their contours as if understanding their
composition. I could not deny that I
became fearful of what she would discover as she attempted to read their scars.
These eyes of mine: their history of sadness
was displayed like an open book, and yet they made no effort to be hidden;
screaming of their discontent, begging for a sign of affection. But did
she notice that?
No.
How
could I break it to her without seeming so melodramatic, without drawing
attention to my disapproval and to my instincts, which told me she only saw the
surface of their glare?
She knows me, but she does not understand me.
She knows of my past, but does not know where I’m coming from.
These
eyes are mirrors that cannot simply be stared at nor studied like some strange
source of wonder. I could only reveal so
much through their display so as not to seem so vague, but that is not their language.
These eyes: they are fearless and timid; reassured
and insecure; wise and inexperienced.
These eyes of mine hold the keys to various
stages within my mind – the layers pealed away with every step traveled.
I
could not deny entry to the one who seeks to endure the journey of exploring my
complicated character, if only she saw past the contour of my eyes…
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