For the Girl With a Scar on her Left Wrist

Pretty, pretty eyes,
They told me.
Pretty, pretty eyes,
As clear and green as a go-light.

Nobody ever hit me,
Ever did me ill enough -
the real hard grain of it
is deeper, too deep.

The real grain of it sits just just just
Behind my left eye,
A little crevice,
Just between skull and orb.
I can feel it when I turn my eyes.

I try to ignore it,
but it does grind,
the little grain,
it cannot help itself.
It is immobile,
drawing jagged images
an inch behind my sight.

Don't cry little thing,
Don't cry, don't cry,
Such pretty, pretty eyes.
Pretty pretty eyes,
 Kept still,
Locked up,
Behind glass, to be viewed.

My head is a display case,
and if only held them still
my eyes would never grind,
never grind, but my eyes still have to turn sometimes, sometimes, sometimes, sometimes.

And the crystal grinds,
behind my stoic eye,
never drip,
never weep, but the crystal still grinds,
the sand still scrapes it's images,
just an inch behind my sight.

And so I put my eyes into my left arm,
and massage them open,
and let them weep.


(I would love to attribute this beautiful picture, but I don't know where I found it. If it's yours, please, please let me know)