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Your eyes met my eyes behind this bar on the shady side of town. What our eyes were both doing behind a bar on the shady side of town remains a mystery but I digress. Your eyes had on this badass worn leather jacket and some dirty, torn blue jeans and my eyes had on red thigh-high boots, stilettos and too much makeup. Your eyes and my eyes knew what was up. They made out like rape against the wall next to dried up piss and broken bottles: blood. Your eyes said they’d call and my eyes made a lame attempt to wipe the red lipstick left on yours knowing no call was coming. Later, when my eyes crawled into their sockets smelling of intoxicants and cologne and the optic nerve hookup was restored and all that shit that transpired transmitted into my brain, I got pissed jealous at my eyes that they did dirty things with your eyes and I stabbed them repeatedly with a pocketknife. “That’ll show my eyes to get their freak on with your eyes!” I thought, while all the viscous goo that comes with eye stabbing dripped down my cheeks like tears.