That eye. It's fixed on me again. Perched, she evaluates me with her head cocked to the side. She knows how I look and what I am. In her brooding, she has found that her looks, her thoughts, her being trump mine, and I am not worth more than a sidelong glance.
We were born to be strangers. What can we share? If I am A, she is AA. If I am AA, she is AAA. There is nothing about me worthy of her notice. For the fifteen seconds a day that she regards me, she regards me as the grass: useful only for harboring food. Though she deigns to be served by me, she has no desire of my company. If I die, someone else will bring her food, so what am I to her? Blades fall, and so I will fall. She will live on and be worshipped, for that is her due.
Every eyelash stands at attention 'round her eye. They pay homage to the piercing flash that commands more powerfully than words. Words are extraneous. She is more eloquent when she is silent, and her offense is voiced through deafening silence. The initiate can read the flashes and their mocking mirth. Mere peons cannot sustain the first onslaught, and bow their heads. Bleeding, they marvel at the brilliance that slashes them.
I stay, head bowed. Though she stabs me with her eyes, I will return.