it was stuck in me

buried beneath layers of blood cells

and tissue.

I could not dig it out,

despite my best efforts

with silver tools

with sharp edges-

needles and such.

I've tried to flood

it out with whiskey and wine

but instead I became saturated

with addiction.

still, it fluttered within me

beating it's feathery tufts

washing away the sun

where it would burn so vigorously

the light would etiolate

my organs.

on certain mornings

when I woke

I'd already dreamt that I

had been filtered away in the night

leaving behind a

stain on the sheets,

the phone off the hook,

ink-soaked, slurry love letters

and a blooming corsage

on my left breast.

then I'd have to do it all again.

negotiate my body

and sell my tongue.

by the end of the day

all I could stand to do

was collapse

and dream again

of being washed away,

like little broken bits of

watercolour palettes.

I have learned to let

it live in my brain.

sometimes it was quiet

and would only make sudden

flickering noises,

like a bulb burning out.

other times it

grew a voice as booming

as my father's.

now, in this moment

it is just dead water

plugging my ears

gently carrying my pulse

up and around my head

reminding me that I'm still here.

The old house with a deck, tennis courts, a swimming pool (where I learned how to float). I would tell my friends it was three-stories high, but I think- looking back now- it was only two. Sea-foam carpets, always fluffed and clean.

Downstairs there was an old washroom. A bucket of hand-towels. Vintage jars that had french soap bars stacked inside each. Lavender stems, too. The family room had laughter soaked in its walls from watching Saturday Night Live. Midnight runs to the taco place down the street. After homework, watching music videos. Four hour long conversations on my first cell phone ever (the one with the antenna). Talking to a boy with a lip piercing. Legs propped up. Muffled giggles while everyone slept. The sunflower room. The bed sheets were crisp-white. Fabric sunflowers suspended loosely from the canopy. Tall stalks of bamboo hugged the bottom corner of the house.

Upstairs there was a collection of horses. Some painted, porcelain, rugs and saddles. Outside hanging pots with green plants. Wind-chimes that sounded like church bells. God would call me in the morning. Porch swings, listening to old songs from the sixties (maybe that's why I love Fleetwood Mac so much). The smell of a boxer dog. The sound of his heavy paws climbing the treacherous stairs. Toast with real butter- not margarine. She made that very clear. Yellow cups from nineteen eighty-five carrying tea to my lips. Etched on daises, losing colour, losing lines.

One hundred and one miles away from home. One o'clock in the morning, I'd settle into the bay window in the front. Sleepy boxer dragging paws behind me, confused, stretching. Unwrapping my secrets for the far-off San Diego city lights. Untrammeled. Holding on at thirteen. Releasing each one into the air, watching. No on is awake. It's safe.

Big breath in, here I go.

San Diego, I don't want to go home. He is sexually abusing me. Some nights I can float away and pretend it's not happening. But lately, I can't disappear. His cologne gets stuck on my body and on my hair. Even when I wake up in the morning, I can still smell him there. His spit stains my collarbone. Some times, I feel like I want him to keep choking me until I stop breathing. Some times, I'd rather die while he's pinning me down. I'm broken. I'm not happy anymore. What happened? I used to be so happy. San Diego, I'm scared my grandmother's going to die from the cancer. She's throwing up a lot. She's always tired and it scares me when she says she can't walk. She is the strongest person I know, but she's so weak. I want to be stronger for her. I want to be alive again. I want her to see me smiling and know that it's genuine. How do I make-believe that I'm okay? If not for me, then for her? She doesn't deserve to know that he's raping me. San Diego, I'm cutting my wrists. It sounds really silly. It is. I don't know why I do it, but it works. My friends don't believe me at school. Is he going to stop? Should I not tell anyone?

Big breath out.

Tears welling, the lights flicker as if to say, "I'm sorry." Go back to bed. Wake up, smile on, toast and butter for breakfast. Laughing.

I just wanted to be loved.

[ 1 ]

Gray splices of wood

bind themselves on the chalk-white

shed door. The peachy bricks are

still warm from last night.

What a dim bulb, I think. It lingers

over the large green cans.

A dozen pedestrians

meander by, racing

to clock in for Monday morning.

The white shed doors intently

watch the people passing by.

Curiously, they are slightly split.

Heaps of black plastic

droop over one another,

anxious to be weighted and lifted.

A green vehicle pulls in

the space next to the cubicle.

A tall man steps out

and rummages through a cardboard box.

A glass snow-globe emerges from the clutter.

Tiny pages of glitter rain down

on a cramped-up underwater city.

The freeway carries on over head.

They don’t stop.

They don’t look.

If they knew, they would snap their

spines just to catch a glimpse.

I pour more tea into my mouth

as I stare into the open slit of the twin doors.

[ 2 ]

On the other hand,

the great investigator

analyzes shimmering drizzled dust,

hoping for unfamiliar

grooves and furrows.

The exhausted horse-haired brush

sweeps from left to right.

Wasted minutes slip

by suddenly.

They bring in the canine.

Several pieces of worn out sweaters are

set out as homework.

Stacks of small wooden

Brazilian dolls rest

on top to a frayed newspaper.

Splotches of calligraphy ink cover up

February’s headline.

The bedroom walls are still smooth and spotless.

Nothing has been

touched or even grazed.

Not even the linen is stained.

The great investigator gnaws on

the very end of his pen.

This illusive event procures

a multi-media fanfare.

Arrangements are considered.

Uniforms zoom by

promptly on cue. A shoebox

of Polaroid photographs

is carefully cradled.

They will be revised,

hole-punched,

and spread all over the graphers.

The front door clicks closed.

The house goes silent.

He sits on the edge of a quilted bed,

tugging at the corner

of a teddy bear’s brown ear.

He stares off into a

personal pocket of daydreams,

yet sees nothing

but her sun-freckled cheeks.

[ 3 ]

It is 11:23 now.

The sun is barely passing over the peak

of the buildings. I vigilantly

wipe down my office

windows with a foamy blue

solvent, lifting up smudges

that had over-stayed their welcome.

The parking lot is full.

Colorful steel glimmers from the

freeway rims.

The old white doors

seem to sigh as the wind knocks into them.

Then, I notice two men striding

over to the bin behind these doors.

The copper catch falls abruptly

and dangles down.

One of the men ashes

his cigarette on a red brick.

I stop wiping my window.

The thunder of bin-wheels echoes.

The men laugh about

something irrelevant.

I hold my breath.

They roll the crate further down the lot

until I can no longer see it.

The waste of the week

is imposed on someone else.

The white doors are open,

swaying back and forth.

The rusted hinges creak;

I can hear them clearly through

my pristine office windows.

The slamming of fingertips

on keyboards comforts me.

I fold the dirty yellow cloth and place it

on my desk. The blue

solvent splashes on my shoes.

My computer screen

blinks impatiently, upset

that I have gone on ignoring it so.

3 new e-mails furiously flash.

I close my blinds satisfied and go back to work.

[ 4 ]

Weeks have come and gone

like seasons. The holidays

were over looked this year.

In a busy office with navy blue suits

and intercom speakers.

Lost labeled folders get

trampled over by more recent

emergencies.

Somewhere else,

in a sterile house,

skinny cobwebs appear

underneath the bookshelves.

the television pushes fuzzy

pictures and noises

in front of his eyes,

yet he sees nothing

but her sun-freckled cheeks.

down the hall, beyond

the dark kitchen linoleum floors,

her door is closed shut.

It guards the Brazilian dolls, the quilted bed,

the calligraphy ink set,

and her snow-globe birthday gift.

Tiny pages of glitter

sleep soundly inside

the cramped-up underwater city.

Welcome to DID.

D is for dissociative.

For most, It's when you finish the chapter to the new book and have to go back and look, to reread it because you weren't paying any attention in the first place.

For most, It's the moment you catch yourself behind the wheel of your car and you have no clue how you got so far

For some, It's the moment you fall and skin your knee and tears start pushing out from your eyes until you realize. you feel alright, even though youve stopped feeling altogether

For me, It's the moment when I had to find a hiding place in the bathroom, angry voices tangoing back and forth in hot and unforgiving Spanish, it's me at 5 looking down at my wet dress from the plummeting sadness begging for my dad to come home to save me from the sounds of an alcoholic monster. Only to look up and find her- my first friend. The southern belle with the little pink bows. My best friend who no one else can see - this is DID.

It's the moment my new best friend told me "honey everything is okay." And then I stopped feeling that day because she started to feel for me.

It's the moment when he walks into

The room and i know he's coming for me

Yet all I can do

Is pretend to be asleep as he peels

Off the sheets and splits my little

Legs open like his Christmas doll.

It's the lull of the eyes

When a hand flies to meet my

6 year old cheeks because my bedtime was at 8.

It's the rate of my heart beat

When i hear my father has died

On the streets of LA

Probably with a heroin needle in his arm, anyways ...

This is DID.

I is for identity.

That's easy enough... But...Who is me?

Identity is the funny little cloud that has been following me around, shifting, twisting, sometimes white, on Sunday's black, lightning licking out of me with anger and confusion.

It's the constant trust issue because i never know if it's going to rain, or snow, or be bright.

It's the moments I wake up in someone else's clothing in the middle of the night.

It's the reason why I've been a Catholic, a Buddhist, a Hindu, a Muslim, and a slew of other worshipping devotees.

It's the reason why I come to and find coloring books scattered around me like a beloved book fair.

It's my hair how's it been red and black and purple and shaved.

It's how I have ten different names

This is DID.

D is for disorder.

It is the carousal of diagnoses, medication, clip boards and hospital gowns.

It's being on lock down after I tried to end my fragmented life.

It's groggy mornings when my eyes won't open from my slurry Seroquel state.

It's seeing shadows and voices and feeling men's hands running down my thighs in the middle of a flashback.

It's checking into rehab, withdrawing from pills.

It's the thrill of going to group therapy and trying to explain that THIS shit is DID.

My DID.

My DID is a novel of childhood, trauma, rape, incest, brainwashing, addiction, suicide attempts, lost relationships, lost money, lost time, lost me, my selves and I.

If you must know, no it's not all bad.

My DID is an intelligent narrative of poetry, calculus classes, a published book, a theatre admission to Juilliard, it's the reason why part of me can drum and the other part can't use chopsticks.

It's tucking myself in at night with stuffed animals and sippy cups. It's wearing cowgirl boots on Monday and a combat boots on Tuesday.

It's always having someone to talk to.

It's being the most colorful crayon in the box and knowing even if I'm broken, I can still color the entire rainbow.

You look at me and see

One whole piece

what you might understand now

Is you're not only looking at me: we are system of multiplicity.

This is DID.

Raspberry and lemon lozenges. White paper box, sticky from rootbeer circus sticks. Tongues tattooed cotton-candy. Crayons gone missing. Color with your fingers instead. Pretend the barn is red in the hospital room. Hot afternoons are cooled and calmed with ice pops, flavored ice. Pocahontas T-shirt worn twice. A rainbow slinky dies, death due to terminal entanglement.

Clipboards with grown-up writing walking back and forth from rooms 24 , 25, 26. Just barely grazing the lobby. Glasses coming off, on to the head of a busy doctor. Pursing lips and tongue-tapping, tisking away at a busy chart. Rabbit on the floor named Doctor Floppy. Coloring away the night before. Unfamiliar dialogue finds its way through, somehow, some way, even over the television. Casting images of puppets. Sing along.

Glasses come back down.

"Hi, there, sweetheart. Can you tell me what happened?"

Sprained-thumb pushing on blue shorts. Clamping down on truths. Orangejelly lips refusing to move. Had to get away, had to get away. No one else sees you. More grown-up writing. Exchanging medical terms. Flying over my head like a hot air balloon. Wicker baskets, shiny film. Too high for me to touch. Hiccups ensue.

"She does this when she's nervous."

I changed my mind; the barn should be blue. Smellsipping the soaking bleach, too clean and bright. I miss my bed and I regret telling them about you. Too late now. Here comes the icky stuff. Tar syrup, something that makes me sleepy. Soporific.

Where do you go when I drink this?

Back in bed, back home. Get well banner dangling softly above my head. Doctor Floppy smells like anti-bacterial soap. Sleeves protecting me. Haven't spoken in 5 months. Won't speak for at least another. 

On regular days, Rue stood at 5'2. She was a mutt in her own beautiful way; her mother was very French, right down to her thighs. Her father was some kind of German- Dahl.

But on Thursday nights like this one, she towered to 5'8.

Rue twisted her damp braids as she leaned against the glass of the phone booth. It was nearly midnight. Maxwell would be calling. The street was emptier than usual, she thought to herself.

11:59.

It had been raining for 5 days in a row. The gutters were flooded with filthy water, pushing wrappers and a used condom down the street. She wished she had brought her coat.

Ring, ring.

Rue gripped the handle of the phone and wavered.

Ring, ring, ring.

She had never missed a call from Maxwell. He had a quick hand and an even quicker temper from what she heard from the other girls. But tonight, on this Thursday night, she let it ring until it exhausted itself.

Her breath fogged up the booth. It didn't matter, anyway. She had already made up her mind. By sunrise, she would be collapsed in the alley way behind the after-hours club, sprawled beneath the flickering No Smoking sign. One quick injection and it would all be over.

Rue lit a cigarette and picked up the phone book. With an exhale of smoke, she closed her eyes and threw her finger down on a page.

Hannah. Stephen Hannah. 4673 Juniper Street Apartment 103. She picked up the phone and sank to the wet floor of the booth, cross-legged. She dialed her unknowing friend.

The sleepy stranger answered.

"Hello?"

"I'm going to kill myself tonight," said Rue in a low voice unfamiliar to her own ears.

Silence.

She twirled the steel chord in her hand.

A deep sigh ahhhhed from the receiver. "On a Thursday night?"

Rue's eyes glanced at her watch. 12:06. "It's Friday now, man."

"Fuck. So it is," replied the stranger named Stephen. "Who is this?"

"You can call me baby, baby. Listen, I need a drink. I need to get out of here. I'm two blocks away from you."

"You can't just fucking call a stranger at 12:06 and request a fucking drink and expect them to join you."

"Well," she answered blowing smoke from her lips, "you answered. You shouldn't answer calls in the middle of the night if you're not ready to jump at an emergency."

"What kind of fucked up game are you-"

"Do you get high?"

The stranger paused. "What?"

"Do you get high? Do you want to?"

"Fuck. What the fuck... baby? Okay, fuck it. Where do I meet you?"

A smile stretched along her face. On last drag, smoked down to the filter. In a low whisper she said, "Apartment 103." Click.

The stranger opened the door in a tattered blue robe. Rue held out a bottle of whiskey. "Drink?"

"I'm dreaming," said the stranger as he partly opened the door. In she went. She slipped off her heels and found her way to the kitchen. The door closed behind them. The apartment was lived in, to say the least. He must have been some kind of writer. There were papers strewn about, clippings from magazines and encyclopedias. The sofa had marbled ink stains on it from calligraphy pen spills. Rue pulled herself on top of the kitchen counter to reach the cabinets.

"Hey, hey- watch it... what the hell is your name anyways? Hey get down!"

She looked over her left shoulder. "I told you to call me baby. It's nicer this way. You got glasses up here?"

"Yeah, on the right."

Rue brought down two whiskey glasses and poured them full.

"Jesus. Alright, baby. You got my attention. What do you have for me?"

Rue pushed the glass in front of him. "Is that all I'm good for? What ever happened to talking? You know, getting to know a person before you get blown?"

The stranger took a gulp from his glass and she did the same. "Alright, you like music?" asked the stranger. "Never mind. Hold on. Just, sit down over there." He motioned to the orange sofa in the living room. The one with all the ink spills. He disappeared into the dark hallway. A record needle scratched. Crackle. Cue Sleepwalk, Santo & Johnny. "What's good, baby? What's this talk about dying on a Thurs- sorry, Friday night."

"I was only joking, mister. I needed to get the hell out of there. Maxwell was coming to find me. He would have killed me anyways, you know, if he just saw me standing there."

"What the fuck kind of joke is that?!" yelled the stranger, spilling some of his whiskey.

"Hey, calm down, honey. It's not a joke. I really could have died tonight."

"Who the fuck is Maxwell? Your boyfriend?"

Rue stared down at her drink. "No, man. He's my...boss. He's my boss and I was supposed to work tonight, but, fuck it to hell, right?" She took a long, loving swallow. The stranger's eyes followed her silhouette from her tangled hair to the bottom of her pink fishnets. His face softened. "Hey, let's talk about something else, honey. I found you in the phone book. You must be single. No way a woman would let you live like this."

The stranger drank. "No woman. I don't need a woman telling me what to do. Women are trouble."

The record was on repeat. Something about the apartment was comforting to Rue. Suddenly, she pulled out a little bag full of white magic from her purse, along with a razor blade and mirror. Methodically, she placed each item on the coffee table between them as if they were offerings. She hummed quietly to the song that was playing for the third time.

Eight exquisite lines of cocaine begged to be consumed in front of their faces. Rue bent down, bowing to the stranger, and took a long inhale. She looked up at him with big, blue watery eyes. Her nose was powdery and pink. With a $100 clutched in between her teeth, she melted onto the floor and crawled over to him on her hands and knees.

"Blow, baby," said Rue groggily.

The stranger bent down over her and sniffed up a couple of lines. The room begun to buzz. "Jesus, baby. That's some strong-" Her lips fell onto the strangers lap. He took her chin into his hand and stared into her bloodshot eyes. "You're high baby."

"Blow, baby?" said the groggy girl with pouty lips.

The room continued to vibrate as he fucked her mouth. The song played 10 more times.

Sometime between her first orgasm and the sound of the garbage truck's squealing brakes, they fell asleep on the carpeted living room floor.

Gently, Rue began to wake up. The stranger slept peacefully with robe undone. She checked her watch one last time. 7:09. The sun was threatening to rise. She rolled over and gingerly kissed his shoulder blade.

Quietly gathering her shoes and purse, she hit the last couple lines of coke. She took her watch off and set it beside a napkin on the coffee table which read, "I'm so happy I called you. -Rue Dahl"

Out she slipped into the morning frost to meet the flickering No Smoking lights.

grime

black and gritty

stone and rock

in the skin

underneath

chewed up cement

and green bottle glass

from a bar fight

with a purpled winner

hot air

pearly skin

with freckles

dancing,

tumbling,

spinning

scraping

along the asphalt

spokes halting

tires screeching

bodies flying

in pendulum pirouettes

nevermind

that though

because

we are children

in an alley way

laughing

hollering

crying

plucking

green bottle glass

from our knees

together as friends

and pretend pilots

driving our jets

reporting back to

base

of the willow tree

where the swing

hangs too low

for our knobby

knees

while our ankles

drag heavily in the

dirt below

back by sundown

back at it again

in the morning

after breakfast

after our knees

are healed and

scabbed

ready for the

next

crash

of childhood