Words by Camilla Eustance
I was coating myself in glue
so I wouldn’t have to move
when you came to warm
your ego by the fire.
Your face was
carefully constructed,
an ice sculpture
you crafted yourself
in the mirror that morning.
But your voice didn’t reach me—
it paused and got stuck
at the letter ‘I ’.
I glared through the flames
and spat out the sparrows
pecking at the walls of my heart.
They struck you above the ears,
such was the shock
that your eyes loosened,
unscrewed themselves, and fell out.
I caught them in my modest hands,
clutched them
to my chest.
When you left
to comb your black hair
with a brick
I kept your eyes
rolling around in my pocket
with a twenty cent piece
and a list of neglected wishes.
I found a park, where I sat
next to a patch
of marbled white mushrooms
and stared at my knees.
After an hour, I felt your eyes
looking through my clothes
at the ridge of my back,
my spine stretching forever
up, down and across.
I took out your eyes
and held them up
to the nearly cloudless sky,
begging them to see
from a higher point
or a more distant planet.
The six o’clock light
was stroking my cheeks,
begging me not to cry.
I tried to swallow your eyes
after my cup of hot lies
and a slice of dry hope
but I choked.
They wouldn’t go down
because they could never be
a part of me.
So I left them that night
on a street corner
underneath a flickering street lamp
in the hope that one day
they would see light.