A coarse contact lens, weeks old and speckled with protein, scratched my right cornea. Now I look through that eye and what I see comes to me wrapped in wax paper, smeared in Vaseline.
If I lean forward, my face an inch from the bathroom mirror, I see an eyelid and I see eyelashes. I see an eyeball of glistening white eyeflesh, and I see the nest of red eyevessels that pulse within. What I don’t see is the huge fucking gash that I know is there, that I can feel is there.
It’s the apocalypse inside that eye. Tear levels have risen a thousand percent. Tears keep washing across. That eye is drowning. The pain comes every time I blink.
Post a comment