No disengage switch.
A neon sign on a cruescent night. Humidity like clear slivers of ripples. Not faltering; not blinking. Not in that city of decay where you need a sign repairman.
Neon vibrance splashed against midnight blackblue. A bright, zany bandage slapped against a bruise.
(But anything less and you can’t feel it. Anaesthetized from the cruelty of reality and feral, wild hearts breaking.)
You remember her standing behind you on a balcony, wind threading through your hair. Her demand, hoarse on her tongue, a desperate rasp,
“Feel it all. Feel it all.”
You thought it was a demand, but now wonder if it was a curse. Every christening has that foreboding warning, a crone dressed in black.
(A creature crafted of sinister nightmares and all of your fears.)
No disengage switch.
Just her demand, hoarse on her tongue, the sands of time running through the hourglass,
“Feel it all. Feel it all.”
You swore it was a gift – to render every memory, every damn emotion – in fully articulated detail.
You could smell the grapefruit your father sliced the morning he told you the cancer was back.
You could taste the crackling menthol when your husband told you he wanted a divorce –
(his eyes shining with tears as he explained he still loved you, he just loved her more).
You could still feel the ache in your throat, breath hitching, wondering if you’d ever live again.
Feel the faux mink coat the night you remembered how to breathe.
(Clutching that damn fake fur like a child reaching for a hand when tottering on the ice.)
Even now, with silver in your hair and wrinkles beside your chestnut eyes (wrinkles like bedsheets gripped in a night of passion – “please, please,” you had whispered), no disengage switch.
“Please, please,” you had begged, “love me.”
And you never knew how to numb the pain & quiet the feral, wild hearts breaking.
Isabelle Palerma 