poetry writing

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

A Shattered Autobiography: a Poem

Like collaging layers of parchment paper
on top of one another,
I have buried myself underneath a rubble
of trauma.

Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon
or a phoenix rising from the ashes,
I am discovering my autobiography
stencilled between lines of poetry

and fiction

and fire.

Every word I scribble down in a mad haste
is a frantic attempt to name a feeling
that is beyond words.
(My way of sketching the rocket ship
that will guide me back to my galaxy.)

The sanitized version of reality
goes down as smoothly as cyanide – a bitter pill,
but somehow, something I’m forced to swallow,
nonetheless.
I see myself in the paint splatters &
the little messes she was so eager to take
a damp rag to.

(This is an imperfect work of art –
lines crooked and acrylics splashed
out of bounds.
This is not something that will catch the eye
of an art dealer.

This is my little mistake on canvas,
but you see,
that inked-in star is home for me.)

I have spent lifetimes, hiding underneath
piles of paper, dodging who I could have been,
avoiding who I could be,
but the truth is

I could be amazing
if you bend the bars of this iron cage.
I could be unstoppable
if you listen to these memoirs,
read these poems,
study these paintings.

When you finally ask who I am,
I’ll tell you.
I’m in media res,
still in the progress of self-discovery,
but I swear, even in the shattered mosaic bits,
I can shimmer.

I, too, can shine.

& perhaps that’s because of your belief in mirrors
that I can see the vestiges of beauty
glittering through the shards others neglected
and left behind.

Isabelle Palerma