At a young age the vitreous inside
Our eyes are perfectly transparent;
We see the world for what it is;
And not for what it isn’t.
Imperfections soon emerge with time
Branding shadows on our retinas
Showing us the past in worms
That crawl across closed lids
To feed off insecurities; the ugly
Memories we can’t forget, though
Tried in vain. The worm, the floater,
Always finds them.
Sweet congealed mess living in my head,
The spot on the carpet that won’t go away;
If only I could cry you out.