No Eyes ::

There is not a single pair of eyes in her apartment save her own.

There is once, but she feels watched, loomed over. Over months, years, she plucks every pair from every face.

She starts with toys. She pinches their button eyes, slips the blade of a Stanley knife under her fingertips and severs cotton tendon after cotton tendon.

In a fit of exorcism she contemplates swallowing them. The thought that they might lodge in her stomach stops her.

She fills a bag with eyes and a couch with the blind. She removes both from the apartment. Rendered sightless, the toys are harmless, but no one could prove it to her.

She outsources home appliances. She disdains their common familiarities.

Now when they blink good morning, blink ready, blink done, blink goodbye, blink hello, blink enjoy, blink pleas for help, she understands none of it. She does not read Chinese, and that works for her.

She invests in urbane death. Poison on poison, solution on solution, cold, purpose-built predators raining silence.

Amoral mice are extinguished in the trap-saturated no man’s land. She climbs through the roof hatch, takes an easy pleasure picking cold bodies from their soft insulation batt deathbeds.

Plants: none. She keeps one geranium near her bed until, one morning, the flowers do not open.

She mixes boiling water with four heaped tablespoons of salt, pours it into the pot and puts the plant in the garbage chute.

It is blind, sightless, and yet its life, its sensitivity to light, water and care, is enough to unnerve her. It was there.

Even before science fiction, speculation was reflective.

Everything with two eyes, fingers, a mouth, like us – good.

Everything without them – evil.

Repetitive god complexes passing as imagination. Handsome two-eyes doing battle with the eyeless and malformed.

She desires to live inverted, and she therefore lives hardly at all, too concerned with righting wrongs.

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