It’s okay that you don’t love me.
I’m not hurting.
It doesn’t bother me that you don’t read what I write.
Sliding razor blades across my skin helps me feel (better).
Stopping helps me feel (better).
I’m happy.
I’m getting used to us being apart.
This hurts less now than it used to.
We can be friends.
I’m trying.
That didn’t hurt my feelings.
I can barely remember him.
I forgive myself.
I hardly ever think about you.
That turns me on.
I told you everything.
Just one more.
I’m not crying.
This isn’t wrong.
I learned to be content with what I do have.
I’m a poet.
tara caribou | ©️2019
a poet indeed
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You shouldn’t believe the lies….
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Hauntingly beautiful, Tara! 🙂
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Interesting word choice. But thank you.
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It’s incredibly vivid & you really pull the reader into the writer’s inner thoughts – beautifully written!
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Thanks
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I love this journey that you have invited us to experience. Yes, you are a Poet, and so much more than the page could hold. Interest has arisen on the use of razor blades. Sounds like fun.
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“I’m a poet”
Certainly not a lie.
Stay strong.
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Thanks.
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Oh wow can feel the pathos
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Thanks
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Oh wow! Fabulous 🌟
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Thank you – always nice to see you stop by ☺️
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I relate to this so much. The lies are hard to keep track of — for others and myself. Thank you for sharing such an intimate part of yourself. And Tara — sometimes what is true we try to convince ourselves is a lie … you know the demons are giving voice to our weaknesses. You are indeed a poet … and a very good one.
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I’m not a liar… except to myself. My theory seems to be: “if I tell myself often enough then I’ll start to believe it”.
But that’s an interesting thought… that we may try to convince ourselves that a truth is actually a lie. I’m pretty good about knowing the difference but perhaps I will need to re-examine my list….
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Those are great statements
too bad they are lies
Razor blades in your skin
tears coming from your eyes
somethings need to change
a lot of things to revise.
Please, seek help
don’t try to fight alone
plenty of people out there
are willing to help find a sunrise.
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Poets bleed all over everything. Yes, even me. It’s so easy because we FEEL everything.
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We do.
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