Ripping Out An Eyeball

you know when you just imagine ripping someones eyeballs out of their face and then just popping them between your fingers?
Well, it’s really not that satisfactory.

in fact, it’s more of a mess than it is a release of energy;
every time, I end up having to wipe the residue of what once was a tool for understanding the surrounding world and all of it’s canonical glory on my pants,
and the problem is that it’s so hard to wash out so my jeans have a lasting stain of scarred sight on them,
stretching through the denim and rubbing,
chaffing off into the microscopic cracks in my skin.
what it sees inside is some kind of inherent mystery to me because
all that I know is that deep down we’re all red mostly.

it’s not the way that things are taught to be,
it’s just how they are:
blue sky, white teeth, blood red.

It’s not poetic,
it’s just an observation that someone who hasn’t met me decided was the accurate way to describe something.
that’s the weird thing about humans,
they see things and think that they automatically need to
categorize it in so many different words;
even simply using words
categorizes something as a part of language,
but there are so many numerous things in this world that are beyond that.

I don’t mean to say specifically that I’m talking about the speechless things.
I’m also talking about
the wonderful,
the magnificent,
the petrifying,
the terrible,
the silent,
the subtle,
the archaic,
the timeless,
the whispered,
the shouted;

and of all of those,
none of them are quite “things”
but they fit into categories that would suggest so
because they have words.

simply put:
it is my humble opinion that there are some______s in this world that happen,
or lack happening,
that have a value that simply cannot be done justice in the form of tangible things.

ripping out an eyeball is one of those.

so is kissing


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