a poem revealing the hidden realities and anguished cries of eye bags.

my eye bags
are trophies 
i carry everywhere
a display to the world
look how hard i work
look how strong i’ve been
look how much better i am

but really 
they weigh me down
pulling me underground
until only my arms can be seen
flailing for help 
from the dirt of nature 
and humankind 

they are my poems 
my troubles 
my cares 
my worries 
their darkness and their depth  
bearing the weight of the words
i just can’t say aloud

these medals that hang from my eyes 
are awards nonetheless 
they don’t grant me 
the acceptance i desperately chase   
but they grant me 
a voice my throat can’t produce 

they scream for me 
that look
this girl is doing something
is doing enough
is doing too much

my eye bags are my vocal chords 
and it seems as though
the darker my burdens etch them 
the louder i get to be 

Process

Mental illness has ruled a large chunk of my life, but time never makes it easier to talk about. If anything, it serves as a silencer that grows more powerful by the day. It’s incredibly difficult to deal with, and I wish it were easier. But the one thing I can count on to relay my feelings for me when I can’t are my eye bags. One sees someone’s eye bags and wonders if they’re getting enough sleep. If they’re stressed. If something’s keeping them up at night. If something’s keeping them asleep longer than they should be. My eye bags are a result of my hidden hardships, but they at least give me the chance for others to finally see them too.