Pain is a razorblade skating down your throat.
(Are we monsters or are we martyrs?
Hide me in a closet or tie me to a tree &
you’ll see the true nature of the beast.)
A microphone amplified your voice,
so arenas could hear you shriek in anguish —
but no one heard the cry for help.

You splayed yourself open for dissection,
offered the world opportunity to see you
bare.
You clawed through your own midnight darkness
to provide a spotlight for the blind.
More dirt piled on you – who was digging your grave? – your screams muffled, the silence even louder.

When I wanted to scorch off my thumb prints &
erase my existence from the history books,
when I wanted to burn my diaries & abandon my name,
you were there.

(Are we monsters or are we martyrs?
Some of us are mere mortals,
but you were a savior beyond saving.)

You shouted, but no one could hear you
until it was too late.
If you swallowed that razorblade that waltzed
along your throat,
don’t bother telling me when you taste
the copper of blood.
Hide me in a closet or tie me to a tree.
You will see who I am & what makes a man
a man.

Forgive me.
I don’t know how to save you.
I can’t even save myself.

Isabelle Palerma