Sin in Eyes

            There is a weight to eyes—ringed purple and grey, rimmed red, or plain—there are days they are top heavy with sleep, days they are bottomed out with a faithful sorrow. The eyes retain truth invisible, invisible but palpable, undeniable.

            There is a sin, a type of sin that I despise more than any other in myself: that which causes pain, but not to myself. The sin committed intentionally against myself without contrition, until it sears the surrounding people. The consequence is terrible, and rightly so, but the harm done to others is irrevocable.

            The eyes suffer for the sin and tempt for an escape. Darkness. Hiding. The weight is heavy, but deserved. The eyes empty of color, fill with fog, and feign indifference. The eyes send acid guilt into their body. The eyes find distraction: flitting, firing, falling. Falling away from the eyes of others.

            This sin designed for ourselves, but producing suffering where not intended, spirals. One sin becomes two, two becomes three, three, ten. In an attempt to punish ourselves, we continue to punish others. This sin cannot be escaped alone. The very people we pain are the ones with whom we will make it out, onward, from the floor to our knees. Our eyes tell us this. They speak inward with their want of words, with their silence.