tuesday, may 19th

like bruises, 
the sunken ships
sit under my eyes. 
treasure has long 
since been stolen,
gold doubloons 
counted and celebrated, 
in turn. 
heavy footsteps held
below my bottom lash line,
thick and obtrusive, 
forcing me to exist. 
they carry more secrets
than a best friend,
more than a journal,
more than the inside of a chocolate
bar wrapper. 
they are marking their space,
claiming the soft terrain 
of my skin
as their own,
claiming my eyelashes as 
their outer banks,
claiming my cheekbones as their foothills,
claiming my eyebrows as
their disastrous cousins. 
when i'm struggling the most,
they watch others, 
deepen,
become more involved, 
have more words to utter.
they lean out the 
flower windows
and call to the little lines
lining up beside my mouth.
the lines feel intimidated-
they have much less power over me,
misunderstood as happy and carefree. 
but the dark blotches do not comply. 
they plan resistance movements and
plant self-doubt, water the plants
with stress and enrich them with comparisons. 
sprinkle some expectations, but only from yourself. 
dressing on the side,
if possible.
they sit silently, 
and the day continues,
and the ships have not left my eyes,
and the sun has set, 
and there is no time
to pretend 
that these bags do not exist.