You talk of your soul ossifying –
the soft parts hardening,
but I’m preoccupied with
pulling out the hems of reality,
ripping out the stitching.
I refuse to yield.
To be soft for too many years
means
to decay,
to become moss underfoot
& I refuse to become trampled.
They told me that the way you identify
lace is by its holes,
and I know now,
I never want to be recognized
by what I lack.
Instead,
I hunt for the parts of myself
that used to be consumed by the patriarchy
and men with hunger for eyes.
(The pieces of myself
that were consumed
because I swallowed my teeth
to make myself more digestible.)
But I don’t need a flashlight
or a search party —
I can be discovered quite easily.
I’m not the girl who I thought I was.
I’m the woman who refuses to surrender.
I forget my fight sometimes
(like the candle who neglected her flame),
but I am prepared for war.
I am no longer paraffin wax that pours down smoothly-
only to harden on your lungs.
I’m not the gentle pieces you stepped upon –
the dandelion you crushed & never asked
forgiveness of.
poems
Monsters or Martyrs: a Poem
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
Lingering Regrets: a Poem
Every syllable, every plosive shatters the remnants of once held promises.
Shards of broken vows pirouette across the rubber of my tongue.
Each word a lacerating cut like a needle,
like the fine lines etched into my palm for an oracle’s prophecy or an artist’s sketch.
My mouth tastes of iron and of rust, and my head is a beehive, swarming with thought.
My name is Regret — don’t you have a few?
As imperfect as you were, do you ever carry the weight of remorse?
Of course you can’t answer.
The ghosts never respond to me.
I’m alone in my grief & in my solitude, I cannot beckon Lazarus to awaken from his slumber.
This is my greatest sin —
for which there is no redemption.
Isabelle Palerma
Serenade to the Dead and the Damned: a Poem
Love is a Ouija board for the lost souls and the damned —
I will not surrender my planchette if it means giving control to the ghosts.
I contain within me a cemetery with anonymous tombstone and nameless crypts.
I thought mausoleums were meant to be quiet & this one is as loud as a burlesque hall.
You are a ghost & I cannot commit to a life
of haunting.
Seances never felt like homecomings but I gave you my last dance – those nights always scented of clove cigarettes and nostalgia heavy like cologne –
I remember watching the moon cut through trees and thought myself a spirit drifting in & out of your life.
Isabelle Palerma
Runner: a Poem
I’m writing absences where
your heart used to lie,
lacunae where stars used to soar.
You were my sanctuary,
& I thought I believed in
forever.
None of this is broken,
but sometimes, parts of me
fracture.
Every time I try to write,
memories of who I was or
who I could be resurrect
like Lazarus from a tomb.
My skin is barely hanging on my body & I have grown frail.
My desires are no longer carnal,
and my rage no longer violent.
(She told me the years would soften me like overripe fruit,
and I denied it like my hard edges
have an advantage.)
Now, here we are at the gates
and Peter interrogates me —
he asks me why I harbored so much hate,
but even if I have forgiven,
I couldn’t be lace and be defined by my empty spaces.
I feel like I’ve ruptured,
and a part of me will never be the same.
I’ve said it before, so maybe I’ll say it again,
a fabulist isn’t always a liar —
sometimes, just a storyteller.
I followed this line until it fractured
and you taught me about the
fault lines I never grew up along.
He asked me if I still smell like
autumn,
and people clamored to say
hazelnut coffee or brittle fall leaves.
I never knew who I was,
only what others saw.
I couldn’t be lace.
I read through the doctor’s notes
and they all diagnosed me the same –
a tired cliché.
This isn’t Plath nor will it ever be,
but the most I can ever ask for
is someone to love me as I am,
to take me into their arms,
and not to simply tolerate –
not to merely accept –
but to cherish, to celebrate,
to worship, & to love.
You gathered all these different parts of me,
all the different eras,
and you saw who I was reflected through each,
and you swore you’d stay
(as long as I didn’t push too hard).
I’ve been pushing people away
for centuries now,
and I’m tired.
This certainly isn’t the poem I started,
but now that you see me clearly,
tell me –
will you be the one to run?
Isabelle Palerma 