White knuckle it,
and the pain still sears through these autumnal bones.
Crumble them like my skeleton has memory.
It hasn’t forgotten the calendar days piling up
(as thick as novels).

It’s time to start spitting matchsticks
and not caring about the consequences (the aftermath) of fire.

My ears, stuffed with cotton, muffle the sound
of silent, blood-curdling screams.
I have crushed tears into my palm
and have screamed silently
into lungs of shower stalls
(yet the world still whirls
as though I were flung off a carnival ride).

I wasn’t being coy when I said “no”.
I was being adamant.
My teeth marks in your shoulder blade should serve as a reminder.

I will punch through glass
with words alone.
No amount of duct tape, super glue,
will repair the realms destroyed.

Memories are like binge drinking.
I wake up with my throat burning.
(The ghosts wail outside my house,
rattling the windows and
causing the rafters to shudder.
Begging to be let in.)

He mistook my empty for hollow
and tried to fill me when I was merely seeking fulfillment.

Another left shadows form-fitted to my figure,
lying, saying I was just an angel slut
falling
when really, a shove sent me
flying.
(The truth tastes as rusty as nails and goes down just as smoothly.)

He lied to me about the taste of electricity,
claiming it was a needle to a vein.
And all I ever wanted was the stars to be bright enough,
I never needed a neon sign again
in this town.

These memories are skyscrapers,
and these skyscrapers are leveled by volcanoes.
(And now, I am soaring like a phoenix, above the rubble,
taking me beyond the landscapes I once knew.)
No longer do I care about where these matchsticks may land,
nor who may scorched by the words that sear.

Isabelle Palerma