What were my eyes?😏

Windows, they said. Windows to the soul, framed with lashes like curtains drawn halfway, daring you to peer through. But not everyone sees the same thing when they look. Some saw mirrors, some saw masks, some saw mayhem. And me? I’m still trying to figure out what I see when I close them.

Maybe they were maps.

They traced memories like coastlines — laughter wrinkling into the corners like familiar bays, tears carving little riverbeds under the surface. My eyes have seen far too much and not nearly enough. They scanned the skies for answers and dropped their gaze at truth.

They watched time crawl in silence, like sunlight moving inch by inch across a wooden floor. They locked onto glances in crowded rooms, felt the pulse of a conversation that never quite made it to words. My eyes — they caught your silhouette in doorways and your absence in the chair across from me.

What were my eyes?

They were sharp. Bladed, even. Cut through lies with calm precision. I once looked a man dead in the eye and watched him flinch from the reflection of himself. Funny how some people think they’re hiding behind words when their gaze betrays them. My eyes have learned to read between the blinks — the stutters of sight, the hesitant pauses.

They were fire and frost. Sometimes wide with wonder, sometimes narrowed with knowing. I’ve scorched bridges with a stare. I’ve made people feel seen in the kind of way that makes them sit straighter, speak softer, open up. I never asked for confessions — but oh, they came.

They always came.

What were my eyes?

They were hungry.

Not for food or fame or fortune. But for the kind of beauty that lingers. For sunrises that make you shut up and feel something. For late-night streetlights casting poetry on puddles. For lovers whose names are still echoing in the back of my mind like favorite songs I forgot how to sing.

They wanted stories. Yours, mine, anyone’s. They caught the twitch in your jaw when you lied, the soft panic in your pupils when you cared more than you meant to. They noticed when your smile didn’t reach them. They noticed everything. That was the problem.

My eyes held grudges. They remembered every glance someone didn’t give me. Every rolled eye, every look of dismissal. Every time someone saw straight through me like I wasn’t even there. So yeah, they learned to play cool. 😏

They became masks. Mirrors. Armor.

What were my eyes?

They were lonely.

Because seeing too much makes you distant. It’s like being at a party but standing behind the glass, tapping on the window while everyone else dances. You smile, they smile, but you’re not there. Not really. My eyes learned to fake it. To curve with laughter that didn’t start in my chest. To sparkle on command. To flirt without promise.

They became a performance. A practiced script.

But every now and then — someone caught me off guard. Someone looked into me, not at me. And for a second, everything inside me screamed: Don’t look too long. Don’t look too close. Don’t see the cracks I painted over. Don’t—

But it was too late.

What were my eyes?

They were yours, for a moment.

You looked into them like they were a song you used to know, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. You asked me nothing, but I answered everything anyway. In glances. In side-eyes. In the way I looked away and then back again, daring you to keep going.

You saw past the filters. Past the swagger. You saw the kid hiding under sarcasm, the dreamer who stayed up at night wishing for more. You didn’t flinch. You stayed. And damn, I hated you for that. Because once someone truly sees you — you can’t go back to pretending no one does.

What were my eyes?

They were scared.

Of being misunderstood. Of not being enough. Of being too much. Of falling for illusions — like the way the stars look close enough to touch, but burn light-years away. My eyes played tricks on me. Made me believe in things that weren’t real. Made me chase ghosts in daylight. Made me wait at doors that would never open.

And yet — they were brave.

They kept looking. They kept hoping. They kept seeking magic in ordinary things. My eyes were soldiers in the quietest wars. They marched through heartbreak, betrayal, goodbyes. They never stopped showing up. Even when the world went dark, they kept scanning for light.

What were my eyes?

They were storytellers.

Even when my mouth stayed shut, they spoke volumes. They held joy like a secret. They wept without tears. They smiled first. They apologized silently. They forgave louder than any words could. They asked for things I didn’t know how to voice — comfort, closeness, one more minute.

They were contradictions. Innocent, jaded. Hopeful, skeptical. Soft, sharp. Open, guarded.

They betrayed me sometimes — rolled when they shouldn’t, stared when it was rude, lit up when I was trying to play cool. 😏 But they also saved me. Over and over again. They told the truth when I couldn’t. They connected me to people when my words failed. They loved loudly.

And even now — after all they’ve seen — they still do.

So, what were my eyes?

Not just windows. Not just tools. Not just flesh and pigment.

They were poems.

They were battlegrounds.

They were invitations.

They were home.

And when you looked back at me — really looked — I realized:

Maybe yours were too.