Your eyes are fluid.
They are wrong.
Large, brown and full of something—
something that moves just beneath the
cornea. Iris, pupil, fuse,
laced with an inky mystery.
They are wrong.
My mind screams as your eyes
flow over,
sending out shadow tendrils,
clawed spirits.
I look away, I fear
your eyes will reach into
my skull, excavate my brain, return
with a sneer.
Your eyes are wrong.
They leak nerves, sensory cells—
they cannot contain your
mind. Mine, only a mine
for you to divine. I cannot
face the liquid in your eyes, the suction,
surface tension,
waves of intellect, emotion.
They must be wrong.
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