Billie was born with blue eyes. Not a deep blue like the oceans. Not even turquoise like dreamy islands.
No, Billie was born with eyes blue like ice. Hard and cold. Two rhinestones profoundly pegged into eternally weary orbits.
Billie was born with blue eyes but in the wrong skin. And her mother knew. How those eyes could be acute! And she knew what others would soon only see. The rich darkness devouring veins and rosy cheeks. Sombre lips for sombre souls. Pink matter, the last detail to make them falter. There would be no curly mane, no loving gaze, just the silky darkness for everyone to take, chew and spit. Too bitter, too sour or too sweet.
Billie was born with blue eyes. Ones with melted steel, severing minds, slicing words, her two feet standing still.
But Billie was made of noble earth, colour of dirt and the smell of mirth. At night, their fingers would grope, knead and mould what their mouth could never swallow. Her tar so thick slithering down their throats as they leave her here to rot.
What had she seen, the old trees amongst her kin. Brown skin cracked and crushed, powdered memories of lands lost. In her blue eyes, glaciers under the crust.
They beat it out of her, hardened the bony structure.
They broke it out of her, the soul of the alma mater.
They tore it out of her, the carelessness in her gesture.
Billie was born with blue eyes, stained glass and opened windows where the anger never shallows. The blue they envied so strong, the flaw, proof she never belonged.
A tainted lifeline of turgid flesh gave the icy look a fiery breath. Tall at the tip of her daleth, Billie could start afresh.
📷 Ania Ama by Ricardo Rivera – found on http://continentcreative.tumblr.com