Eleanor Keegan

When I look at your eyes, I see silence.

They are empty.

Not emotionless, nor cold.

Just quiet.

They have the sparkle of the morning bird’s song,

Or the 3 am crickets.

When I look into your eyes I do not see colour.

No blue skies, no chocolate buttons, no fields of endless hills.

Just fractions of noise.

Almost nothing.

When your eyes widen, when they fill with near excitement,

I see the lights of a concert, the headlights of a car on a winding road

Or maybe just the streetlights that take me home.

I see the cherry of a cigarette in the dark.

I see the smoke my lungs choke on.

Your eyes make me smile.

And I would rip open my flesh to watch my heart drip out of every wound I make just to quiet the static.

Because that static is so damn loud that I can’t hear my own thoughts anymore,

They're drowned out by the constant change of a TV that isn't even there,

So I will write,

Write down what my brain thinks, the thoughts I can't hear, 

and I'll call it poetry but it's just my brain trying to function,

Trying to think,

I have seen this word used a lot today.

Many poems, many conversations. 

Yet, today there is no sunshine.

No yellow sun,

it is not because you are not here.

But because the clouds are keeping the sun at bay,

Giving it a rest for today.

I see the yellow in everything.

And even on a day as gloomy as this. 

I can see you in the bus stops,

and the flowers,

and the road signs,

and the words. 

Whenever I walk through a busy town centre,

All the colours go dull,

But my eyes never fail to spot out the vibrancy of even the dimmest of yellows,

Like head lights on a pitch black road,

Or the moon leading me safely through the night. 

When you are in a terrorist attack, there isn’t really anyone there to tell you how to cope. 

It’s just a wave of people thanking for your safety and hoping for your well-being.

Although you are grateful for their sympathy, it really means nothing.

It means nothing because you are still laying in bed at 4 in the morning with images of bloodied faces and terrified running children playing over and over in your head, none stop.

or the same images appearing in your dreams, making it impossible for you to sleep.

or even appearing when you close your eyes, a new face every blink.

My therapist tells me to distract myself, my friends tell me to try and forget about it.

How am I supposed to forget about an event that causes shivers down my spine every time I hear a bang, or a siren, or a scream. 

How do I forget those faces?

Those images.

Sometimes the aftermath is so much worse than the incident that caused it. 

We all have to live with knowing that children died instead of us.

They’re so interesting,

Behind those thin few layers of brick,

Is what someone’s whole life consists of daily,

A window is a door for the eye,