Small eyes

As a child, they joked about my small eyes.

"Keep your glasses on," they’d shout.

These small eyes, a gift from my ancestors,

the same eyes that stare back at me in the mirror,

the only eyes I’ve ever known.

She is dark, like the seed of an ackee.

She is small, like an almond.

Now, she’s turning yellow.

Maybe the whites have had enough.

Maybe she’s tired of being the punching bag.

Maybe she’s growing weaker.

She stays still even when my lips curl into a smile.

She shows only one emotion—sadness.

Perhaps her passion has been extinguished.