Tanya Mac Arts

Ink Behind The Eyes
30x30 Acrylic and Ink on canvas

I lost half the world when we split
and the rest when my vision blurred
right eye fading like a light
at the end of something
I didn’t choose to end.

They said it was from the stress.
From the sugar in my blood,
the pressure, the pushing,
the way I lock things down so hard it starts leaking out of my eyes.

They didn’t know if the shots would work.
Said maybe.
Said possibly.
Said “try not to stress,”
as if that wasn’t the thing clawing at my chest,
pressing against my eyelids
every single day.

Try not to stress,
when the damage lives behind your face.
When even blinking reminds you
you’re broken.

I wore a patch like a pirate
but there was no ship,
just waiting rooms
and a pen holder filled with syringes
that haunt me.
Every one of them a maybe.
A maybe-it-works.
A maybe-it-doesn’t.
A maybe-you-see-again.
A maybe-you-don’t.

Even when I close my eyes,
there’s no escape.
I see it…
the black blood swirling
like ink dropped in water.
Had it been art, I might have loved it.
But it’s mine.
It’s inside me.
A reminder of what I could lose
at any moment.

The left eye started to fade.
Now it’s shots again.
Surgery…scheduled.
I hold back tears before the needle even touches me.
My body already knows what’s coming.
The sound afterward
sends chills down my back
like glass settling after it’s shattered.

And still,
I have to work.
Still have to fold clothes,
smile,
send texts,
act like I’m okay
when I’m unraveling
in a slow, blinking rhythm.

It’s not that I’m tired.
I just woke up.
This is different
this is soul-tired.
The kind of tired that lives in your bones
and pretends it’s just “a long day.”
The kind that makes you quiet
so people don’t ask questions
you’re too exhausted to answer.

I don’t know what scares me more
Losing my sight
or being this invisible
while I still can see.

I’m not looking for a pep talk.
Not comfort.
Not even understanding.

This is the truth.
It hurts.
It’s mine.
And I’m still here.

Not because I’ve figured it out.
Not because I’m strong.
But because time doesn’t ask how you’re doing
it just keeps coming.
And I keep going,
eyes wide open,
even when the world gets blurry.

This is the room where I go
when holding it together
is the only option
anyone expects from me.

I cry in fragments
on the way to work,
in the car,
with the music loud enough
to cover what’s breaking.

I cry in my office,
door shut,
behind emails and meetings
and the hum of fake stability.

I cry in the bathroom
not loudly, never loudly
just enough to pass
as splashing water on my face
or drying my hands too long.

I cry in the shower,
forehead pressed to tile,
where no one can hear me
over the water
tears carried away
like they never existed.

I cry in the pool,
Tanning on the side as the kids play
behind my sunglasses,
head tipped to the sky
like I’m just soaking in sun,
not drowning slowly.

I blame my face
on my bad eye
It’s always red.
It’s just irritated today.
But it’s not just my eye.
It’s the ache behind it.

This is how I let it out
in seconds,
in silence,
in places no one thinks to look.

I mop it up before anyone sees,
fix my voice,
dry my face.

Some days,
I don’t hide it.
Some days,
the weight sits visible
on my face,
in my body,
in the way I go quiet.

You assume I’m fine
as long as I’m not salty,
not snapping,
not making waves.

I guess everyone’s scared of me.
Like I’m some kind of monster.

But I’m not.
I’m like Olaf
Big presence, sure,
but afraid of loud noises,
sudden change, water,
being left behind.

Not scary.
Just tired.
Just trying.

But she knows.
She always knows.
Even when I smile,
even through a screen
she talks to me on FaceTime
with eyes too wise
for her years.