My eyes tell the story I never want to say. They speak the words that my lips won’t reveal. They invoke the thoughts of my mind onto the outer surface of my soul. It’s scary to think that with one look, you can gaze into me and see the purity of my intentions, as clear as day. It’s always said that the eyes are the window to the soul but I think they’re more than that. They’re the window to my very existence, my being and every atom that composes me. My eyes reveal more than I’d be willing to share, ever and once viewed can never be taken neither back nor forgotten. It’s vulnerability in its natural, weakest form. And for this very reason, for this exact purpose, I can’t look you in the eyes. I can’t meet your eyes or let you meet mine. The idea of it shakes me at my core and suggests a realm of uncertainty I dare not wander into. I’m scared to let you in, to let you see, to let you feel the emotions I keep hidden so deep inside. I can’t even begin to comprehend the idea of showing my true skin to you. I can’t. Not now, not ever. For the simple reason of chance of the slightest opportunity you might get once you see who I really am. How I really feel. What I really want. The slight sense of urgency I reduce to the idea of casualty to hide the immediacy of its nature. So, for as long as I can hide it, I’ll never look you in the eyes. I’ll speak with words, true in the form, but innocent in their description. You might think this is being untrue, that I’m therefore lying, but it is neither. I’m rather saving the depths of my soul for another adventure not needing fear of expectation, of reliance, of false hope. It’s not to say that I’m afraid of you, but I fear what you could hold, what you possess and how you handle that possession. It’s almost as if my eyes are the keepers of me in my truest, most raw, form. So tender, so new, so naïve. So pure. So, unready. From the world that it has been kept from all these years, and from you it so secretly desires. But simply does not know it yet. If I had to conjure a conclusion to present to you in an eloquent manner, it would begin like this: all that I intend to do is protect myself, from myself. I have been given authority to be watchful of such unwarranted whims and needs by the same authority that deems it unnecessary to be under surveillance by the same authority that wants to unleash the inner dragons of unknown capacity to feel, to hurt, to love. Quite the dichotomy – the master of all trade dictating while the jester of emotions tricking his way to the surface of all that comes to be. At this thought, you must see the disparity of the black and white affairs that occur behind the lids of life. So, I remind you to never look me in the eyes. Never to see me in my truest form for all that will happen is utter chaos and despair. It’s semi-comical to even induce such a thought. Even tragic to think of the ending. What am I to you other than Helena; and you, Demetrius?