would have been, in days past, that the arguments and pain and hurtful words would have thrown me into a spiral. envisioning red ribbons across pale flesh and splashes of life (precious) dripping onto bathroom tiles. forget the sharp blade, I’d reach for the rusty one. or else a bottle of pills or worse. overcome with I-can’t-do-this-anymore’s and this-isn’t-worth-it’s. rocking back and forth, head tapping on the wall. give yourself a big hug before the end. tears, tears, tears.
enduring love which grows and doesn’t give up, deep friendship flowered and fostered, small hands with beautiful smiles. work. hard work. perseverance and hope. forgiveness and repentance pouring. and the act of creation. white pages first barren now filling, filling, absorbing, blotting, tearing, crumpling, bearing the bountiful burdens, never judging. pencil, pen, marker, paint, watercolor, acrylic, pastel. abstract, surrealism, realism, absurdism, comically ridiculousness, immature… but healing! oh how healing!
so that now, even right now, the blues in missing you or wishing to be holding you, or tired of the fights and frights and misgivings and words best left unspoken. the painful scars reopened. the ocd manic imploring. begging to take over once more. with the past in the past but never quite gone… somehow able to hold my head high. to go out for a walk into the wildness of nature. to listen to the waves and watch the sea birds or the wildlife or the flowers growing or a humble bumble bee just being a bee and able to breathe it in. to let it go. to forgive. to be brave. to forge ahead. to live. to love. to learn. to grow.
tara caribou | ©2022
Writer and Artist
a collection of short poetry from an autistic mind
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The Lies in the Skies Exposed
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