disfigured
you ask me for a pair of eyes.
they hang on little silver strings
from the ceiling like little paper cut-outs.
some are brown and some are black,
but you look at me from across the room
under an overhang of flesh
and i look up at them all and think,
you will not take black eyes.
there are one two three
colored eyes on the ceiling
and i count them
as if i would count
shooting stars.
i stand on my tippy-toes to reach for them,
and i brush the edge of one.
again- and again, but it does not fall.
i look back at you.
you look at me from across the room, ask me
for a pair of eyes.
there are no eyes hanging from the ceiling.
i reach up and dig my fingers into the grooves
of my skull. the flesh squelches under
my thumb, and i take care not to scratch
the sclera. it burns. it doesn’t burn.
it feels
like you, staring at me without a word
hiding under shadowy flesh.
it feels
like the pills i’ve buried in my shirt pocket.
i pull my eyes out, and i pull my veins along with it.
i hold out my eyes out into the black.
there is blood under my fingernails,
and i want to scratch it away,
but then i would drop
the eyes.
you take the eyes. you do not touch
my flesh.
“do they fit?”
i want to ask, but there would be no meaning.
this is the script. those are my eyes
in your skull, and none of us
are making it out of here.
(night falls.
you ask me for a pair of ribs.)
they hang on little silver strings
from the ceiling like little paper cut-outs.
some are brown and some are black,
but you look at me from across the room
under an overhang of flesh
and i look up at them all and think,
you will not take black eyes.
there are one two three
colored eyes on the ceiling
and i count them
as if i would count
shooting stars.
i stand on my tippy-toes to reach for them,
and i brush the edge of one.
again- and again, but it does not fall.
i look back at you.
you look at me from across the room, ask me
for a pair of eyes.
there are no eyes hanging from the ceiling.
i reach up and dig my fingers into the grooves
of my skull. the flesh squelches under
my thumb, and i take care not to scratch
the sclera. it burns. it doesn’t burn.
it feels
like you, staring at me without a word
hiding under shadowy flesh.
it feels
like the pills i’ve buried in my shirt pocket.
i pull my eyes out, and i pull my veins along with it.
i hold out my eyes out into the black.
there is blood under my fingernails,
and i want to scratch it away,
but then i would drop
the eyes.
you take the eyes. you do not touch
my flesh.
“do they fit?”
i want to ask, but there would be no meaning.
this is the script. those are my eyes
in your skull, and none of us
are making it out of here.
(night falls.
you ask me for a pair of ribs.)
About the Author
Kay Lee is a tenth-grader attending Korea International School in Seoul, South Korea. She is currently putting together her writing portfolio and was recently accepted into Juniper's Young Writers Program.