The purple eyed, red pupilled boy sitting on my couch
He startled me. Nearly scared me bloodless
As I felt my veins shiver and my heart...
Well, my heart, it convulsed.
Something about him was wrong about him, but it wasn't his eyes.
No. Never his eyes. They were calm and offered a sort of warmness,
Like a life long friend I hadn't seen in thirty or forty years (but, alas, I'm only eighteen).

An aberrant trait laid on his face like a bleach stain on an ivory white table cloth
And it gnawed upon my bones and brains
Like it was a termite colony feasting on a fallen log or an ancient house.

I paced back and forth on my rugged floor, the grey fibers worn into my fleshy feet
His red pupils traced my path like daggers in crushed blue rose petal paint
They tick-tocked like the cat clock with the swinging tail that never hung from my four walls
Cross legged and hands folded in his lap,
I'd assume he was a twisted porcelain zombie rag doll,
He never seemed to draw a single breath,
If his eyes would stop moving.

I stopped. Those eyes. Those unyielding eyes. They pierced through my being.
Every fiber ached, screaming in a diabolic choir. My torso threatened to sunder
Bisecting at a surgeon's touch. Like I was some wrongly gendered post-modern Black Dahlia corpse lying nakedly posed to the sidewalk couch in my room.
I never said I was an actor, nor did I ever aspire.
His gaze was the scalpel and his pupils the lovely hate machine in my back
Between my spine and skin.

This made me smile. It wasn't his eyes. It never ways. They only hurt...
Only hurt because I had stopped trusting them.
It was his unnatural stillness.

He flashed me the Chelsea grin
And was gone
Like a Jack the Ripper inspired Cheshire cat.
That forever, toothless smile hung in the air,
My nightmare for the day before last year,
And I was left.
Left alone with all my insecurities.