in the quiet evening hours she cries
alone in the stillness
sitting beside her bed
pillow cold
sheets wrinkled and mute
she scrolls and remembers
the lies, the betrayal
uncertainty

she’s trapped and now
she cries for what should have been
what was supposed to be
dreams lost, faded, unrealistic
heart pierced through
she will never trust again
she’s trapped

she longs for something…. but what?
disgusted, she realizes she’ll soon forget
everything she wanted to write down
she fades

she’s the awkward girl in the corner with baggy jeans and tie-dye shirt, wishing

she’s the frumpy wife who can’t remember the last time her husband gazed at her with desire

she’s the dreamer aware of her faults,
unable to escape them, awake and broken

she’s the artist who bleeds out her despair
and longing and hates herself for what she does,
who finishes with a sigh, sets down her pen,
and utterly despises what she’s created,
an open book, so to speak,
vulnerable and disadvantaged
and never seen

(but who would want to?)

she cries
she’s trapped
her nails dig in
to anything, anyone

it’s dangerous, she knows it,
but there it is

she’s trapped, alone,
a snare of her own making
how can there be love without trust?
where is the hope in betrayal?

“sometimes you can’t claw your way out,”
she says
“sometimes there isn’t a hand reaching,
sometimes it’s dark and lonely…”
her and her memories
reminding what an awful wretch she is

so she stretches her hands
buries herself in the words of Dixon or Daquin,
Nelson or Dring,
names which, perhaps, mean nothing
to you or I
but, for her, who have penned verses so deep
so penetrating, almost holy,
for how can one understand another’s plight?
how can one write out all the inner things?
unless they too…
and then, how to move forward?

she flips the page, dives deeper
this time it’s White or Gallo or Raven she devours
reality and illusion intermingle
trading places and flipping around

surely the answer is found in the next line
surely it must,
oh surely it must

tara caribou | ©2023