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A recorded reading of “Born From the Eye That Watches”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
I came from the eye— not that sees, but knows. A shape unformed, dripping thought like milk from a myth not meant to be told. My shell was a question spun in gloss, its sides soft with maybe, its seams stitched by stars that forgot how to shine. Hands clenched, as if to hold gravity. Skin—no skin, only concept wrapped in pulse. There were watchers. Not gods. Not beasts. Just eyes without names waiting to applaud or undo me. I am the egg and the spill. The petal and the wound. The center you feared might reflect you. And still, I drip. And still, I open.
Lyrics
I came from the eye— not that sees, but knows. A shape unformed, dripping thought like milk from a myth not meant to be told. My shell was a question spun in gloss, its sides soft with maybe, its seams stitched by stars that forgot how to shine. Hands clenched, as if to hold gravity. Skin—no skin, only concept wrapped in pulse. There were watchers. Not gods. Not beasts. Just eyes without names waiting to applaud or undo me. I am the egg and the spill. The petal and the wound. The center you feared might reflect you. And still, I drip. And still, I open.
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