Green Irises
Blind Butterfly-Chase.
He ran, lips almost devoured by a manic smile and emerald eyes buried by the green of the velvety garden; he was only seven, so he ran and ran in a blind butterfly-chase, and I watched and watched, an alerting emotion swallowing my chest—ribs, heart, stomach, diaphragm—as my decayed corneas reflected the image of his fingers curled around the scissors; but he had to fall, irises suddenly illumined by a shocking crimson, and as I close my eyelids, the sight of his red tears is still enough to make me choke on the asphyxiating oxygen in my lungs.