If you saw her walking down the street, you wouldn’t give her a second glance or maybe, possibly, you’d swerve to go around her, taking care to put as much distance between you both. You don’t know her. She’s nothing to look at except for the tattoos and the cleavage.
Her hair is long and wild all around her, whipping in the breeze or dripping in a rainy downpour; she seems unaffected. She wears very little makeup in which to hide behind, preferring the natural, direct look in her eye instead. She wears piercings mildly, not flaunting or showy or fantastic. The low-cut top shows off her tits and maybe a tattoo or two. She wears a wide leather cuff about her wrist to hide her past transgressions. An unassuming short jean skirt gives way to tall, heavy black leather boots laced all the way up her inked calves.
She walks with neither arrogance nor defeat in her roving blue eyes. Upon further inspection, had you taken the time to notice, you would instead see a hint of sadness, of sheer fierceness, of passion, and of artistic aloofness in those eyes. She takes in her surroundings, stores away details for future use. Perhaps she notices you and files away in a moment’s time a deep wealth of observed information. The way you walk; avoid, notice or ignore; the type of clothes; your hairstyle; what your hand is doing; the emotion on your face. They’re all easy for her to see; you’re an open book to her, or at least as she perceives.
You’d never know by glancing at her, but she’s a lover of music of all types and especially that of heavy metal; even so, she doesn’t watch television, much preferring books. She is full of passion and desires justice. She abhors liars and holds honesty above most anything. She’s of a quick wit but is a deep thinker. She’s slow to anger and quick to love.
But you’ll never know that. You’ll never know any of that because to you she’s plain, she’s physically unattractive, she’s too quiet, she’s unimportant, she’s maybe a trouble-maker, she probably does drugs, and she’s unnecessary to you. In your selfish world, she does not exist. And yet, here in reality, she does. She experiences the same emotions you do: great sadness, worrying fear, lust, joy, blinding love, hope, longing, ecstatic happiness, laughter, pain and sorrow.
Perhaps, with your newfound knowledge, next time you see her on the sidewalk, at the bistro, at the park, you’ll pause a moment to share a smile with her. Allow your eyes to meet. Maybe change both your perspectives. It could be worth it. SHE could be worth it.
tara caribou | ©2017
Writer and Artist
a collection of short poetry from an autistic mind
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