Today I met a girl with yellow eyes. No shit, her irises
were golden like scotch and sunbeams mixed together.
I wondered what her tears tasted like, if they would
burn. I, always the poet, greeted her: “You look like
a fuckin wolf.” She grinned, revealing blunt canines,
and confessed she hated them when she was younger.
How typical, I thought. For us to instinctively be ashamed
of the things that make us shine. I hope for you, reader,
to never dim that which makes others linger curiously
on you. All the better to see you with.
Cierra Lowe-Price, 2022