I blink and you're inbetween my eyelashes. You're the dust molecule in my mascara. Every blink, every flutter is a delicate ballet of science and motion; a fragile balance in the nuances of my existence. I feel you in their every twitch and shudder. You crawl into my eyelids at night. I can feel you there, now, just out of my sight with your own flesh and blood blankets.

You are the pain I feel when I look quickly in any direction. The redirection... of my line of sight, the misdirection. My eyes though, refuse to learn their lesson. You should not exist there anymore. You have no place upon my skin. I have no reason to be under your influence. If I feel you there, on my eyelashes, I should not let you in again.

But I stop and I wonder, what will I focus on, if not the blinking of my eyes. Will I become obsessed with the mechanics of my steps? Taking fervent care to never let them guide me to your door? Will I burn just to feel your fire? Will I succumb and be the girl who drown in her sadness only to be born again?

Who will I become then?
Who will I become?