New Blog, Follow Me There

I’m moving my poetry over to a new blog: Rhymes with Duck

You can find my writings here,

I’ll still update here every now and then with personal shit.

Thank you to all my readers. You’re all amazing.


Rose Cotton



hapless fledgling
unable to move
unable to make a sound,
save the minute gasps and gurgles
(which I’m sure would
make my heart swell)

I am trying to get back to you

wrapped in rose cotton
I’ve a thousand names
yet none of them deserve you

I am trying to get back to you

there in a dark room
I dream of the weight
of your frame cradled in my arms
I dream selfishly of your
gaze weaving into my eyes
knowing you are mine

I am trying to get back to you

all the while
I am waking up to you
remembering a song made
just for us
my body is tired and stretched
with new scars, new lines
but they are all for you
I am all for you

I am trying to get back to you

even so,
I am not solely fixed on
the smaller you,
but all of you
to watch over you
helplessly in love
growing into happiness
growing into a place
I never knew (I love you)

I am trying to get back to you

and never on my chest had you laid,
floating in red water
suspended in a spiraling
I have watched your
grapeblue seedy pieces
over and over
and over
washing away from
my insides

I am terrified that I may never come back to you

I am harvesting smiles of the mothers
with ten pounds
of ten fingers
and ten toes


I am no woman
I am an empty shell


it was Friday
that I came wheeling down the
5PM freeway
which was lit by limited sunlight
and everyone was pushing on their brakes
my head was thick
I remember the saturation

suddenly above us there was
a still-warm ungulate beast
lay sprawled in the middle of the
yellow lines
the baskets of eyes
were wide and dark
poor deer

I wanted to stop among
the traffic and peel it’s
head off the concrete
maybe I could
sit while it slipped
but the cars kept
buzzing and
the drained
employees of America
were too eager
to sit down
to gluttonize
to tear off their ties
and fuck their wives

meanwhile I drove all
the way home
wondering if it
had died suddenly
or if it had to wait
until the blood drowned
its brain

Now the World Knows! World Mental Health Day 2016

About a year ago, I was contacted by a media group in the UK asking if they could interview me and possibly publish an article about my experience with Dissociative Identity Disorder. Well, a year later, it’s here.

The Sun, UK has published the interview, as well as the Daily Mail.

What the fuck.

I have mixed emotions…

My main concentration is to raise awareness- with mental illness, DID, suicide prevention, rape… I mean, just things that I’ve personally dealt with. That’s my entire focus. I want people to inform themselves, to know that DID specifically isn’t this silly little game, but it’s YEARS of personal turmoil. It’s trauma, it’s real life pain, confusion and work.

When I started this process of being interviewed, I was in such a different place in therapy, in life, with myself. Now that this has been published, it is actually quite trippy to see my progress.

(I’d also like to point out that there are definitely a few errors on the articles. One of them being that Rogue is a “sex addict.” So not true. )

ANYWAYS, there’s lots I could say on the subject.

And to new readers, yes, I am real. 
Yes, DID is actually a real disorder.
No, I’m not like Sybil. I’m a relatively normal person just like everyone else.

Overall, if you’re curious about Dissociative Identity Disorder, I encourage you to educate yourself.

Here’s a link to an article I wrote regarding DID from a personal standpoint-

And here’s a link off of NAMI:

Thick and Happy

I peel the perfume sampler from the magazine.
it’s a name I’ve never heard of,
another Italian who-ever-the-fuck creating
scents to attract the opposite sex.
scents like “Midnight Princess” and
the girl on the cover looks like
some chick I went to college with-
all thick and happy looking.
I think her name was Lauren?
what was my name?
back then I used to paint
and I’d pass in my assignments with
hidden cocks etched into landscapes.
I’m sitting here on the bathroom floor
identifying women’s shoes as they
walk in and out.
Pseudo-Lauren smiles back at me
in her bright Chanel lipstick.
this is where I am.
Pseudo-Lauren gets a salty-teared
facial, dripping down her glossy dress.
this is where I am-
rubbing Italian sampler perfume
on my wrists
so I can pretend that I’m just
as valuable as the thick and happy model.

Welcome Home

On Friday night
I stood 1 inch taller than you in my
stappy heels, in my coral red dress.
The glowing Jesus Lives sign beamed
just below our feet as we gazed over
the buildings, the pulsing lights in the hills.
We stumbled our way to a gay club-
the one with the candy music.
What was his name? Antonio?
Glasses clinking, feet pacing,
we giggled over pets and slaves.
You brushed your hair back
and your shampoo smelled like home.
Exhausted, we left in a black car all the way home.
You fell asleep on the sofa,
but I woke up next to you somehow.

On Saturday
we woke up only to kiss, to eat,
and to satiate the hunger between our legs.
I ventured off to the corner market for
headache medicine and sparkling water.
When I came back, you perched your
body on the bed, crinkled your nose and
dimpled your cheeks.
The medicine worked and you felt better.
I couldn’t help but fall asleep next to you
one more time, even though it was
100 degrees outside.
Around 6 pm we finally stirred from
our lazy daze to brush make up on our faces.
I wore pink eye shadow for once.
You were quiet and pensive,
tangled in nerves about meeting my big brother.
I couldn’t help but smile.
Somewhere within the next two hours
we found ourselves in a warm backyard
with a live band at a retirement party.
I’ve always loved how you got along
with my family.
My brother loved you, despite the mania.
You drove me to a night club
and you looked stunning.
We spent the night spinning and stepping
to the kind of music that always brings
me back to you.
I would be perfectly happy watching you dance
for the rest of my life.

On Sunday
we struggled to peel our eyes open.
I must have kissed you one thousand times.
The sun followed us to Hollywood
to a small remodeled home where they served
us fresh banana bread and coffee.
You wanted me to feel that I was
having breakfast in a home because
it was Father’s Day.
I didn’t want to cry in front of you-
but it was just like my childhood dreams.
(thank you)
We didn’t want to go back home, so
we decided to visit a museum of death.
I held your hand when I felt scared
and I wondered how you were so composed.
I admired the look on your face
when we came upon the medical equipment.
Even the smallest splashes of passion
that explode on your face bring me joy.
We had nearly forgotten that we had
advertised for pets and slaves, so
we spent another few hours thumbing through
nonsensical replies, pictures of men in heels,
and video made just for us.
We laughed and hollered in amusement.
A warm, glittery bathtub called out to us.
We slipped in like mermaids.
At the end, our cheeks were sore
from smiling so much.
You wanted to watch a movie,
I wanted to kiss you in the dark in rows of seats
like two teenagers in love.
So we went and wept like children
at the end of the film.
Finally, you pulled up to my driveway to say goodnight.
This felt like old times.
This felt right.
This felt like something my heart had been
missing for a long, long time.
And as we pressed our lips goodnight,
I could finally breathe again.
You were back home.

The Thief


Alzheimer’s stole my grandfather.

It started like any thief starts…
with something simple,
like his short term memory when he
couldn’t remember if he had left the sprinklers on
and the water began to flood down the street.

Then, the disease became bolder, more audacious,
amused by its own impervious power.
It began robbing days, weeks, months,
even the years he spent in Spain with my grandmother.

It stole things I never even knew we’d notice.
Before my grandfather could even ask
what was going to happen to his mind,
he forgot how to
dance to salsa music;
sing like Frank Sinatra;
drive me to school;
turn on the stove;
change the TV channel;
write letters;
read the Father’s Day cards I made him;
answer the telephone;
put a tie on.

I watched as my family had to reintroduce themselves
every time they walked into the living room.

Then, the day came where I had to tell him who I was, too.

He used to call me his princess, his pet, his puppy.

Alzheimer’s stole 80 pounds from my grandfather
when he forgot how to eat.
My once big and strong hero
now stood at 5’4 and weighed 88 pounds.
I recalled how he would swing me from his muscles
when I was just a little girl.

It didn’t stop there.

Alzheimer’s stole the light in his eyes, the very same
that had been my lighthouse, my torch.
What was left in his gaunt body
was a hollow resemblance of my Tata.

This once-stubborn, hard-fisted and intimidating man
had become a helpless child, clutching
at my grandmother’s apron, crying in breathless confusion.

The last conversation I had with him
was by his deathbed. It was a Sunday evening.
I held his hand in mine and told him that I loved him.
I told him I forgave him for the parts of my
childhood for which he could no longer apologize for
because he had forgotten how to speak altogether.

And while I confessed my own regrets,
and reminded him one last time of how much I
loved him as my father, as my grandfather, and
as my protector,

Alzheimer’s stole his life.



Hasta la vista,  te amo mucho, siempre, siempre.

Guru Ram Das Ashram

As promised, I’m here today with an update from the Ashram! It was an amazing experience. I hope to go back many more times.


I arrived to the Gurdwara around 3:20 AM. I found parking rather easily for West Hollywood. I stepped in front of the temple, which was playing soft kirtans on the outside speakers. I slipped off my shoes and covered my head with a scarf. When I opened the doors, there was a Sikh meditating on the farthest wall. Later I learned he was the Sewadar- one who guards the Gurdwara 24/7. I was greeted by a very friendly Sikh, Tej. He welcomed me in and kind of showed me around. He briefly explained the schedule for the next 4 hours. I was introduced by a few more people. I felt totally at home.

I walked over to the takhat, where the Guru resides, and touched my forehead to the floor in front of the Guru. I set my intentions for the morning and opened my heart to whatever experience was awaiting.


I found a place to sit in lotus and I began to meditate. I must have been doing that for about 20 minutes or so. I heard chimes, then, and the Sewadar began to stir from his meditative state. He laughed for a few moments, which made me smile. He stretched his limbs out, walked over to me, and gave me hug. I could feel the energy buzzing off of him.

Tej passed out Holy Books for each of us to follow along to while chanting. Tej led the chants along with another Sikh woman. There 7 of us all together seated on the carpet of the temple, chanting for 30 minutes or so. The chimes sounded again and we were led in a brief prayer to set our intentions for Seva.

It was time to get down to business. Tej played some kirtan music overhead as we got out the vacuums and rolled up our sleeves. As my new friend, Jess, vacuumed each and every (large) Persian rug, we all rolled them up and put them to the side. We delicately took apart the takhat and joined in prayer as we moved the Guru from his resting place.

I swept the marble halls. We all got buckets with clean water and on our hands and knees, we cleaned each inch of the floor and walls with a wet rag. Next, Tej took gallons of milk and poured them where the takhat was. Again on our knees, we used our bare hands to push the milk everywhere, polishing the floor.


The funnest part is when we flooded the entire place with buckets of water. The actual act of tossing the water along the marble and out of the temple doors was very healing and symbolic of personal cleansing. We all chanted as we did this.

We grabbed large towels and hand-dried the floor. Then, just as carefully as we had started, we put everything back the way it was.

In the next room, the Guru sat along with his Kirpan, swords. We had a procession as we brought the Guru over and we sang to him.


A few of us sat on the carpet and polished the swords. We bowed to the Guru and touched our foreheads to the floor again.

Finally, we sang kirtans for the next hour with accordions and tambourines.


We prayed a last time. Tej passed out a ball of pudding for each of us, 5 almonds, and chai tea. We ate together, talked a bit, hugged, and went our separate ways.


It was a very beautiful experience and I was glad to be apart of the community. They were all friendly and ensured that I felt welcomed.

PS- My body is super sore today!

Growing Pains

*blows dust off of blog*

Media interviews
Big life changes
Personal growth
blah blah blah

Lucy is back and well. I kind of missed her. Okay, I missed her a lot and I was worried. But she’s okay.

Jumper is a name I haven’t heard in a while. He moved into the system house a while ago… I wouldn’t necessarily categorize him as an alter. Interestingly enough, he is the only male in the system. I saw him in the hallway this morning. He looked a bit strung out and preoccupied.

I think I mentioned this already- I was contacted for an interview with a UK media group. I’ve been working with them for a couple months now answering questions, having Skype meetings, etc. So that’s going well. We’ll see.

I’ve been hanging out with friends a lot more now and gaining my support group. It makes me really, super happy to know that I have genuine people who care about my well being and who are also sober and sane. It makes a huge difference.

Life changes and personal growth. I keep coming up with these huge realizations about myself. More specifically, I’ve come to terms that I have quite a martyrdom syndrome… meaning I sacrifice my own personal mental health and well being in order to make others “happy” and comfortable. I would rather soak up everyone’s pain and discomfort. The more I wake up, however, the more I’m realizing that it’s not healthy for me OR the people I care about.

I hate being an adult sometimes. I hate being responsible. *crawls into a fort to color*

Life sure is a trip. So many things have changed in the month alone. It’s difficult and challenging, but that’s what all good lessons are comprised of, aren’t they?


24. I am 24 years old today. Go me!


Thanks, Mom, for popping me out. Sure…it was kind of scary. You know, when I had to be weaned off of crack and heroin. But after that I turned out pretty cute 🙂

Life is going well. Hiccups here and there, but everyday I’m getting stronger. I had a moment this past week of feeling “the urge” to be depressed. Don’t get me wrong, I tried! I threw myself under the covers, I listened to my “Songs to Die To” playlist on Spotify. I stared blankly at the ceiling and thought of really depressing things. Then, I just got bored. So I got up and got a snack.

I do admit, however, I had an intense manic episode last week. I wanted to peel my skin off and fly. I haven’t experienced that kind of elation in a long time. Thankfully, I was able to get grounded before things really flew the roof.

Friday night, my girlfriend had planned a birthday party for me at a really fucking amazing bar (nightclub?) in Downtown Los Angeles. I had a lot of fun. Well, from what I can remember. I blacked out at some point. BLACKED OUT. Passed out. He had to carry me over his shoulder like a limp rag doll. And then pull the car over so I could throw up.

Very lady like of me.

But, overall, I still had a ton of fun. It was a great night. We had dumplings the next day and that totally made up for my hangover.

As for today, I’m slightly irritated because my boss has disapproved my temporary schedule change for the play…. meaning I had to pull myself out today. Kind of sucked. I was more upset with the way he handled it, though. The whole thing sucked and I feel angry about it.

BUT it’s my birthday and it’s a good day. I’m going to have fun after work at happy hour with good friends and celebrate being alive and healthy.