A misreading of a prompt from Kody Granger: a hollow heart.
She carved out a space to make it home.
She crafted a village inside, and yet
each time they hurt her,
her anguish made her burrow
further inside a place
nobody decided to look,
no one bothered to explore
deeper until it was thought empty,
deeper until it was thought vacant,
deeper still until they accused her
of having a hollow heart.
Housed within my ribs
is a metronome that on a good day,
glistens like a cluster of amethyst,
but most days, it burns
like an arsonist’s proudest achievement.
It is an anatomical feature
I thought I disposed of
when sitting on fire escapes,
waiting for lovers to save me from the clutches
of my own sins & sorrows.
But she wrapped some grass around my obituary
and smoked it.
The vapors felt like my soul parting from my body,
but you did not say goodbye.
That day,
you made love to my ghost while a part of me watched.
That’s the shame of dying –
no one knows where we are
& I exited the room silently.
Forgive me.
Memories are a wound &
I must carry them.
Nostalgia lies close to my skeleton bones,
and yet my past is clouded
like a mirror with its shine worn off.
Whenever I try to recall the small details of you,
it’s like gazing at a blurry photograph taken
many years ago
of someone I once loved.
& remembering your voice,
though I could listen to it the rest of my days,
is like hearing a phonograph underwater.
The way it falters in my mind
as though you have a stammer,
though I know you never stuttered.
It’s my mind that creates the gaps.
Memories are a wound &
I must carry them.
As I carry them, the past becomes less certain
and I wonder if my memories are true
or perhaps just something I wrote down
in a book.
Storytellers don’t always make the most reliable narrators,
but even through the gauzy haze,
our memories glimmer with a whispering beauty.
“Unlike you . . .” a prompt from Kay A.
In less than a month,
unlike you to care about the wreckage of the Titanic that is my heart.
I have witnessed you stampede on
and trample me barefoot.
Yet,
the teeth you bared is what
I have come to expect.
Family taught me
(for better or worse)
to murder with mercy.
When you were flashing your baby teeth,
sharpening like knives,
I was practicing my smiles
in polished glass.
Unlike you to offer condolences
or express empathy,
and yet, the past few days,
while Lazarus has been in the tomb,
a different side of you has been exposed.
Unlike you to show warmth,
still a reptilian cold underneath,
but the air is a bit milder now – less frost,
less chill.
Unlike you to offer benevolence and yet,
a crack of a smile,
a beginnings of generosity.
Is it possible you were murdered by my mercy?
Killed by my kindness?
Or did New Year’s resolutions just fall
a few days behind on this calendar?
I’m not one to gaze the gift horse
in the mouth,
but I do have my suspicions
when you were flashing those fangs,
honing them like knives,
and are now sweet as spun sugar.
Just call me Doubting Thomas
if your kindness only lasts as long as
Lazarus was in the tomb.
An architect constructed you a mansion
for your heart and you called it a cage.
He crafted each room with so much caution
and care.
The muscle nestled between your ribs
felt like a boulder I was incapable of swallowing,
I am a myth,
tugging on strings that have strangled me.
My fantasies were polished glass shards
shattered by laments and heartbreak.
Ancestors draped mirrors
with black organza in bereavement
after a loved one died.
The fabric is as light as a ghost,
so tell me,
how did I still I wake up with
bits of glass crunching beneath my feet?
The sadness was a fragile creature –
the weight of black organza –
and yet I am a myth,
desiring nothing more than to pull
the strings that choke me.
But it’s gentle sometimes,
sneaking in like a moth,
as soft as a ballerina’s skin
and barbed wire.
Our wires danced across the dance floor,
and if you watch,
we might just choke on the memory,
the softness of sadness, and
the gentle lull of love.
Isabelle Palerma 