November 14, 2011
My eyes are drier than my fingertips
So much so that I'm afraid they'll start peeling

And I'll pick at the dry surface, once a brilliant cool green
Until they are hollowed bloody pits.

When asked, I'll profess it doesn't hurt
It won't, not badly, and it was clearly time for them to go
My eyes won't accuse, then

They won't stare and demand sympathy
They will paint only the truly guilty
With her own blood drying on her hands

My eyes will finally accuse me

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