My eyes

“Mommy’s dead.”

People say my eyes look drained of color. I often say it’s the tears that had washed the color away, leaving them dull, and pretty much colorless. The tears that were shed when my life fell to parts. When I lost my best friend, the person I could tell all my secrets. When I lost my mother. From that day, I have never let any of my emotions play in my eyes, I kept them to myself, scared that if people saw a weakness in me, that they would hurt me, that it would be an excuse to use me, to advantage of me. So I learnt how to keep emotion away from my eyes, channel them to somewhere else, waiting until they are needed. But when I need my eyes… I know how to use them.

They used to be full of color life, they used to be my shining stars… But not anymore.

I use my eyes to lie, to betray, to get out of the trouble that I knew would come if I didn’t do anything. My eyes are my own personal weapon. When I lie… the emotions come out to play. That’s when my eyes cease to hide what I am.. ‘feeling’. what I really feel in those situations.. well that’s what is troubling. To tell the truth, I hate lying… but I just get so scare, and… and I hide behind my eyes, my words, hoping that just this once that I would get out of it. that I would walk away with myself in one piece. Sometimes it surprises me how quickly a lie can form at my lips and how my eyes can just slip into the right emotion, to add depth to what I say.

My hair

“Tacara, dear, what are you doing?” the voice echoes through my thoughts, scissors held to my hair, tears streamed down my cheeks, I ploughed the scissors through my hair, ridding myself of the golden locks. Freeing myself, I had thought… But from what?

I Had always been scared of getting in trouble. I had stolen many things through my lifetime. Hiding them. keeping them safe. One day I had been spotted. I was terrified that the person had seen who I am… so I tried to cut off my hair. I had always loved my hair, it was the one thing that I had tried to maintain after my mother’s death. I had thought if I cut my hair off then maybe the people wouldn’t recognise me. That I’d be safe. I couldn’t hide behind my hair. I thought that it would give me away. But then I had destroyed the last thing beautiful about me, so I stopped. I cried a lot that night. Not talking to anyone staying in my room, the gold locks I had cut off surrounding me…

Now being older I had gotten better at stealing I had learnt from my mistakes. And learned how to avoid the earlier events in my life. My hair is long, a golden curtain, one I have also learnt to use to my advantage. I have learnt that my body is a shield, to my soul within. I have learnt how to use it. And now I can use it whenever I need to. I hide behind my hair. I use it to again block my emotions, have learnt not to trust anyone. My hair is like a brick wall, hard to break down, but not indestructible.

But again, my hair is just one of the many walls I have built over the years for myself.

My lips

They hide so much, but yet speak so true. Pale pink, they stick out on my pale, washed out face. They seem to have the most color. The only thing with life. But my mouth hides most of all. My mouth controls what I say, when I say it, and how I say it. My lips are thin and delicate. They hide the beautiful smile that lurks around the corners of her lips, but my smile never comes out to play. It has no reason. It hides there hidden under lies, the truth, and my heart breaks. I haven’t smiled much since the passing of my mother… there has been not much reason. My lips seem more permanently turned down in the corners.

“Hey! Hey! What do you think you are doing?” the voice screamed. “Excuse me! That’s my-“ he froze. Eyes glazed over. He fell to the ground. Dead. I looked around. The man behind him smiled down at his victim, then spotting me he ran, without hesitation, away from the way he had come.

I had seen the man, even recognised him. he was my father. I could have told the peacekeeper, he would have most likely been killed. But I didn’t why should I? He had just killed a man. He would later on in his life pay for it! I had thought. But of course I was wrong. He had come looking for me. I had no one about it.

“Tacara… wow haven’t you grown up?” he said in a sly voice as he advanced on me” I was scared very scared. But as I had learned I hid it, keeping my face stone cold, and my body tense.“ How’s your mother? Is she well? I might pay her a friendly visit, heal some of my se-… Needs” he finished rethinking his question.
“Mom’s would be delighted” I said my voice dripping with sarcasm. My lips thin, hiding the lie hiding beneath them. how could she tell him that she was dead? How? There was so much going through her head. What if he already knew?
“I knew your brothers and sisters were always better than you, achieving more. your mom loved more than you, you know?” he said, playing his words to his advantage. He knew how I would react. That my jealous side would get the better of me. And it did….

So yeah, my lips. Thin. Delicate. Another barrier I have put up for myself.

Yeah so there goes that. See how fake the song is when you compare it to me? Do you see perfect eyes? My eyes are untrustworthy. Sad. Lonely. And my lips? There lies. Unreliable. Ad my hair. It may just be hair. But it is a sheet of lies as well. It barricades my inner soul from the hurtful world around me. But my lips and eyes. They are my best weapons. They are why I am still alive. They are just one of my few barriers. I am not that perfect person. I am the opposite. If someone saw my face. They would turn away, or would divert my gaze and cower, and walk away quickly, not wanting to start any trouble. Yeah not so perfect-

-There’s one more thing that you should now about me… it leaves the song, but the death of my mother… it was too much for me. I found no joy in anything. I was miserable constantly. I was in like a coma. I was as good as dead. One day when I was wandering around the streets I got a bazar idea. I wanted this pet rock I saw a little boy holding. I felt this desperate urge to get the rock. I wanted it. There was this indestructible thirst. It would not dampen.. I felt that I needed it, or I wouldn’t live. So I took it from him. He cried screamed, but I just fled, the object in my hands warm and satisfying. But it never ended there, it only got worse, and the cravings. I wanted more; I wanted the better things, valuable ones. I wanted them all. So I stole more, but it never dampened. And still to this day, I am stealing things trying to quench the never ending thirst, no one knows about these stealing’s, and my hoarding. But don’t really care. These objects are the only joy of my life. They are why I’m still alive.