My Eyes the Eye

She asks me if my eyes are bloodshot in that statement kind of way. I say I don't know, I can't see them. Are they? She doesn't answer in the way that says it all. I'm rubbing my eyes a lot, she says. Maybe that's why they're red. Or maybe that's why they're rubbing. Either way I think she thinks I'm on something. I want to tell her I'm not, but that would only make it seem like I am. Or maybe that would help. It's just that kind of day.

Driving home the sun is doing what it does naturally. It's not drawing attention to itself, my eyes are doing that for it, they're real artists. I can feel the spots where the blood is pooling, if that's how it works. Frankly I don't care to know how it works, I don't need that information, I don't need to push anything out for that. What I need is sleep. Rest and relaxation. No more questions, comments, side-glances. No more giving my eyes the eye.

My roommate is screaming at his girlfriend on speakerphone and she's screaming back. It's a conversation held in his bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room, every minute new surroundings. What is this nonsense? My closed door keeps out just enough sound to make the words sound normal. My blinds keep out just enough light to make it seem like later this afternoon. I'm told that if you don't fight then you know it's not working.

My mother asks me if my eyes are bloodshot. The corner picture of me is too small to tell. I say I've had a rough couple of days, but I'm coming out of it. One half of that statement is true, and even though I'm not sure which half that is, she seems satisfied.