When we barter vestiges of our own unease for euthymia,
we can convince ourselves the price of such is shattering a paradigm.
She found perfection to be a convoluted fantasy – at best – yet pen nibs spill ink, candles drop wax, & hearts break.
Tonight is a full moon – or so they say – and ill-defined hysteria is the psychiatrist’a definition for the terminal disease I carry.
She never colored within the lines nor did she ever draw a perfect circle, but when the nuns slapped her wrists and told her to practice her penmanship, she told them she liked the way her letters wiggled and crossing her t’s never created a straight line across.
( She wasn’t meant to be perfect. No one is.)
Some nights, she would wallow in her own misguided grief, but sadness was not the security blanket she thought it to be.
Love created flawless stars, but she wanted a solar system.
Isabelle Palerma 