Looking is an itch in the back of the eyeball,
stretching the lower eyelid, lifting the upper eyelid,
clawing at the filmy ball to reach the sore, to reach the itch.
I cannot soothe it
I twitch and move, bend, manipulate, this body, this face.
Lift the hair. Move the hips. All wrong.
I bleach my teeth and delicately paint and erase the same surface.
My fingers reach into my skull, looking for the back of the eye,
With long vengeance nails, blind scratching.
If I could reach into the reflective surface, pull the ugly out of me.
Pulling the string of ugly out of me.
Unveiling the ugly out of me.
If I could only reach the back of the eye, I would claw the little balls raw.
— Polina Bastrakova