my fear of you fell from me
like chunks of molten star
awhile ago, replaced by pity soured
from years of undernourishment.

your eyes are still the darkest of black,
and i’m convinced spoonfuls of your irises are scooped
at each dying sunset and smeared across
the night sky, draping a shawl of heartache across each soul.

but you’ve always said eyes are merely
repulsive spheres that should be used as
slick marbles instead, for poor children
lacking dolls and play-things.

i can’t seem to understand your veiled mind
a shifting, intangible orb that spews flames, licking
my feeble fingers and snapping them off whenever
i approach.

i’m still a child to you, but i’ve inherited
your black eyes, maybe even in a hue more sinister than yours,
so that i can be the only one who understands the fire that sputters within you
because it’s slipping through my own veins as well.