Baggage

When I look in the mirror, I wonder
what I would look like if the bags under
my eyes never stopped growing. That they
would have to be wrapped around my neck
like scarves, their fragile, silky heads
writhing like snakes across the pages of
my book, my hand pushing them away
as I write - Carriers of all the
dreams I'm not allowed to have, and
purses for all the dreamless nights
They've strangled from me.

For now, my eyes droop far enough.
I don't have to smile anymore to make
their suitcases noticeable - carrying
all my thoughts and late-night philosophies,
like a badge of honor.
Bags of baggage - the only kind that hold
so much, but stand for so
much emptiness.

11/18, 4:15 AM
Edited 1/4 2:07 AM