sunday, november 05, 2023, 11:15 pm
i look at myself, through my eyes, and can only see what others see; i see an object; i see a numerical grade; i see a bill needing to be paid; i see likes and follows; i see to do lists; i see a clone apart of an institution; i see medications taken; and i see an invalid thought; i feel that people’s perceptions of me are burned into my skin, everytime i pick at my skin or look into my iphone camera; where i can’t escape anyone’s eye line, every adult i come into contact with; i feel the pressure to present in a certain way to my peers to prove that i am just as interesting as everyone else; i feel the weight of the rest of my life through my parent’s gaze; i feel the need to make my professors’ eyes widen in awe of a thought that i share, or to squint in ponder; i feel the demand from employers to be successful so that i can one day have my work in the public eye, to finally be viewed as credible; i feel the need to contain and filter my thoughts so that no more eyes are drawn to me; and i feel the pressure to decide whether i want to be viewed as masculine or feminine in queer spaces in worry that someone else will do that for me; i see my grandparents’ eyes drifting from mine to stare at the ink sunk in my skin or the holes within my face, contemplating who i’ve become; i was instructed to wear mascara to make my pretty eye color pop, but to not wear eyeliner to ruin my eye shape; i was expected to keep my eye out for “the one”, although i hate the concept of “i do”; and i was always taught to make eye contact when i am talking to someone and then hold it when they are talking, even if i feel uncomfortable; but each set of eyes views me as something different, through how they want to see me: as a mediator, a therapist, a wife, a machine, a mental illness; and i just feel so unbelievably tired with all of these eyes being on me; why; why are they all on me?
Photographed by: Meg Bierce
Modeled by: Vebi Ademi, Mickie Cope, Olive Bote, Emile Asmann, Brett Dunn.
