Blinded

When I used to make art

a long time ago,

before I decided I sucked at it,

I used mixed media to depict people.

It was always the same.

A silhouette of a young woman

or a couple,

painted, charcoaled, or – my favorite –

cut out pieces of trash magazines.

And every piece of art I made

had one common theme.

The eyes were missing.

Blocky lines of Sharpie across the face.

Scratched out x’s instead of o’s.

Flowers glued in place of irises.

Ribbons painted on to blind my captors.

In my art,

nothing was allowed to see.

This went on for months.

I never noticed.

I would go to hand in a piece I had done

and think to myself,

something is missing.

And I would take the paper back,

and I would gouge the eyes out,

or cover them daintily,

whichever felt right,

and then hand my work in.

I never gave it much thought,

because it truly wasn’t intentional.

It wasn’t my signature or my motif.

It just felt right.

Today was the first time,

in a long time,

I thought about my blind art.

And how I squeeze my eyes shut when I’m thinking.

And when I’m feeling.

And when I’m on rollercoasters.

And how everyone has eyes.

And there is nothing I can do about it.