about me

Remembering a Friend

In 2022, I lost a friend who was so dear to me. He called us “kindred spirits” and we talked up until a couple of days before his mysterious death. We were close, yet so much about him I felt I never knew.

He was gentle in the face of my storms and though he was soft-spoken, he fought his demons every day in a way that took more courage than I have. He was two days away from forty when he passed, and it’s easy to say that’s too young to die. His flame burnt out, but his memory will live on in all the lives he touched.

He described himself as an eccedentesiast, and I am too to some extent, but his smile, though it hurt him, was one of the things I will remember him for. He smiled through the pain. I cannot write a eulogy for him because I didn’t know him like that, but from what I did know, he was a beautiful person who filled the world with positivity, even when he himself felt bleak.

Just a few of the lessons he shared with me along the journey.

He was found dead in his sleep in 2022, and I’m not sure if his family ever got the closure they deserve from this. I hope they do because I know from experience how closure can aid in the healing process, even if you don’t think you’ll ever be able to breathe again without a person.

I have trouble forgiving myself for some of the things I said to him before he died – things said with the intent to help him to live before he died, things said not knowing he was going to die young – but now hopefully, he can finally set his burdens down and he can be at peace somewhere in the heavens.

The last few weeks before he passed, we spoke frequently and he wrote me a poem. In it, he said, “Even in the darkest of nights and days, I know I can rely on her always.”

He called me his pretty Italian girl and encouraged me to write when I felt like quitting. He taught me to appreciate the parts of me I found ugly. He swore he trusted me, but I wonder how much of himself he hid behind that smile.

We talked about getting a cup of coffee together one day and sharing our writing; now, I imagine he writes in the stars and smiles down on me. I don’t know if I believe in Heaven, but I know I believe he deserves peace.

Today would have been his 42nd birthday, and while I have to move forward, when I hear the Beatles on the radio in the car, I still roll down my windows and belt it out just for you.

Just ignore the fact that sometimes when I sing along, I get a little misty-eyed, thinking of you.

Happy birthday, friend.

Isabelle Palerma

On Enjoying the Journey

Sometimes, I think I’m only worth the amount of XYZ I produce. I’m only worth my word count or the amount in my checking account. Sometimes, I think if I’m not producing art or making words appear on the page, I’m worthless.

But as I was sketching in my sketchbook recently, I rediscovered a phrase that resonated with me: “The creative requires as much care as the creation.”

All of a sudden, it feels clear. I’m supposed to take breaks. I’m allowed to have time away from writing and creating and doing. I can’t be a machine. I’m only human and that’s what makes me so beautiful.

It’s not about constant production. It’s about living life and having experiences and enjoying my life. So I need to forget about constant output and just enjoy the world around me. No longer am I going to entertain the guilt that has been a passenger to everything I do, instead, I’m going to focus on enjoying the journey.

Isabelle Palerma

Imperfections

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about my art and my writing. I have found sketch pads and notebooks where I have ripped out nearly every single page because I was expecting perfection out of myself. What a lofty goal – perfection ten out of ten times? It was ludicrous. I realized I stopped enjoying the process when I was so focused on the outcome.

It took me some time, and a lot of journaling, to revitalize my love for writing and art as a process. I spent today working on a painting where I told myself, no matter what, I was going to keep it and not throw it away. I accidentally spilled a blotch of purple paint on the corner and my first thought was that I needed to fix it, but instead, I just lived with it. And you know what? All Hell didn’t break loose. I survived, and the painting survived too.

I used to have a friend who said, “It’s not in spite of our flaws that we’re wonderful, it’s because of them.” And that’s the attitude I’m bringing into the new year. I’m enjoying my imperfections, whether it’s in my poetry, fiction, or art. I stopped creating for so long because I was expecting too much out of myself.

Now, I’m back to simply enjoying the process – no matter what the outcome may be.

Isabelle Palerma

Anorexia: a Poem

I sicken myself with hunger.
If this was a physical disease,
my ribs would be visible through a sheath of skin.
(My rib bones so sharp they could splinter glass.)
Instead, I waste away while appearing strong.
I’d have carved your name on my bones,
but bones fracture and break.

You took a needle to your skin, but this time,
it wasn’t filled with an illness.
You injected yourself with ink,
and ink is my illness, my poison.

If you throw the stars upon the midnight canopy,
a constellation can be found.
In that pattern, my star is home.
But this emptiness gnaws at me, a hunger
that makes me want to devour my own flesh
and cannibalize myself.
Instead, my soul is atrophying with disuse.
(And I pour more and more into myself,
wondering when you’ll return.)

This isn’t a lacuna nor a crater.
You have vanished for longer,
but I have a heart that’s gone beyond starvation.
It’s empty here without you, &
I just wait for your return,
sustaining myself on memories and promises.

Isabelle Palerma

An Illness: a Poem

A poem written by me, inspired to share by the poet and author, Nicole Lee (@nicoleleepoetry|Scorpio Skin).

This monster reigns as king,
as heavy as an anvil
(as visible as air).

It begs a fight,
fists clenched,
battle-scarred and ready,
when all I’ve wanted is
tranquility.
The bruises it leaves
rot
from the inside out.

The pain sears,
yet the beast hides
(cloaked in shadows).

It might lie dormant
for centuries.
Undisturbed,
it slumbers.
But when it wakes,
blood trickles from its fangs
as it snarls & seethes.
(Searching for a captive.)

It takes & holds me hostage.
It is as toxic as fumes and as haunting as nightmares.