I have always tried to find a reason to hate my eyes. Well not necessarily hate, but a reason to observe both my internal and external self. My eyes have taught me that I’m an insecure person, and for justification, I just listen when they point out remarks. I tend to take things to heart because I strive for perfection. If I was the ideal person that my eyes want, then those around me would admire what I do. I still crave to change every part of me, even if that means taking my peers' comments for self improvement or judging my very own body. Yet, for some reason, my eyes are the only feature I have not criticized. 

I remember the first time I saw my eyes; this dates back years ago, when a friend photographed my face. Their camera had this power over the whole portrait. It dictated every speck of light that touched the lens, but when I was given the raw image, I was allowed to control whatever I wanted. I spent hours perfecting each minor detail, smoothing my once rough face, enhancing my massive nose. However, while encountering my eyes, I left them untouched; almost as if they didn’t permit me to alter their appearance. I wish my eyes would realize that they are far from perfection. I feel they have so much potential because, to me, my eyes are the most explicit part of my body. They enable this emotional state of tranquility, creating a sense of comfort to anyone who wants to converse. When I stare into them, my mind races with the colors that reflect off my mirror, only to see a blue ring emerging into a sea of greens and closing with a yellow glare that fades into my pupil. The blue is this free soul of wind that rebirths into a forest of greens while slowly cheering in the yellow optimistic crowds of my pupils. The colors become this vibrant show that anyone glaring can watch, starting with a small feature that lights the soul wandering in my mind. They see beauty in a different light that strengthens my very own smile. I believe the eyes are the gateway to the soul, a spirit inhabiting the light within us. You can learn so much from a person by looking at their eyes. They have these layers of complexity that unfolds the soul holder of each body. But, this cell my eyes are trapped in fails to astound the audience surrounding it. I look at other features and feel so disappointed that they can’t give me the satisfaction I feel about my eyes. For instance, the structure of my nose stands out, constantly hearing “Did I break it?” or “Was it an accident that it looks bizarre?”, yet I have no control over an aspect I was born with. For my eyes to be perfect, they must make up the many flaws surrounding my body. I see them as this cover that only allows light to seep in, but it's not always sturdy enough to keep away the darkness that lurks around the corner.

Whenever someone points out my imperfections, I can feel my eyes shrink, fill up with water, and hide behind my very own soul. My eyes have this habit of wanting to suffer for me. It’s like the vibrant yellow light fades into the cold darkness of my pupils, sucking the rest of the colors with it. Although this habit has attempted to destroy my life’s own domain, I forget that these bluish greenish eyes are my eyes; my only view of the world is reflected back at a feature everyone must use. It seems that sometimes my very own eyes fail to face that their uniqueness is as similar as the ordinary world around me.