when i wake up

two miniature women
scale my face,
and sit next to the corners of my eyes
resting their backs on the bridge
of my nose.
each one takes out a crowbar.
they pry
each eye out
to donate to
a blind five year old boy
who wants to be able
to see his mom, his dad,
his friends, the color green,
the world around him.
they want him to be happy.
the miniature women 
replace my eyes
with glass ones.
like changing
an burnt out 
light bulbs.
when they finish,
they pull out sledgehammers
and smack them against
the glass pupils until
they shatter.
i blink.
embedded glass shard teeth
forming two small mouths
ready to consume anything
that's in front of me.
there is nothing in front of me.
the two miniature women
hop off my face.
they don't leave yet.
they want to observe.
i'm crying blood.
two warm salty 
red streams.
my hands lead me to the tub,
i fill it up,
slip into the hot water,
and do nothing.
nothing to do.
nothing to say.
nothing to consume.
nothing in front of me.
no where to go.
nothing to look forward to,
which was the case before 
i lost my eyes—
tomorrow never has had anything to offer.
hopeless.
miserable.
frustrating.
a waste of time.
and boring.
the two miniature women leave,
on their way to 
the blind five year old boy's house,
wiping tears out of the corners of their eyes
with the back of their hands,
not regretting their decision.
i wish i could tell them,
"i'm sorry for being a disappointment
i'm sorry for being a bad person."
in the end,
i want that little boy to be
happy.