The first comment
I received
a "*******"
with a smiley face
I laughed off
wouldn't you?
Kind of crazy
kind of creepy
put it away as some one
we all know.

The second comment
came
with the usual language refrain
I was a "hack"
my words were "dreck".
The disparaging words about
my dead mother
gave me pause to reflect.

The third comment and more
began to recall
information of past
faux pas
secret affairs
one or two personal pecadillos
never mentioned beyond
the
dialogues in my mind.
Embarrassing I know.

I, of course,
went to the home page
to see
if it was someone
known to me.

No identifying data
but a picture I remembered vaguely
from a past I didn't know.

The trolling continued
relentless I would say
pulled the plug
put up a block
but
wouldn't you know

The comments continued
to come into my dreams
brutal criticism
of
every move I made
the day finally arrived
when I realized

Alter personalities were shedding off of me
like
psychological psoriasis
They were
hitting the ground running
I was
finding poems
I didn't remember writing
clothes I never bought
People kept hugging me
I had never met before
they
knew me far to well
called me many names
none of which were mine.

The silence of my nights were broken
when I found myself
in my car on Highway 101
returning from where I did not know
with a smile on my face
illegal drugs in my pocket.

How did I get here?
How did we get there?
Where are we now?

Another account opened
on Hello Poetry
with an anagram of my name.

I find my days
getting shorter and shorter
it became clear
I had become the dream
The others
had become me.

They say God is the most important being,
But don't they realize
He's the one
That sends us to Hell?
And don't people understand
That by teaching someone to shoot,
They become vulnerable?
Dramatic irony.
Maybe we should be
More versed in Shakespeare
Than in the Bible.
Maybe then
I wouldn't have so many bullet holes
In my back.

they told us in psychology class
while we were studying
domestic violence
that a victim tries to leave
seven times.

i sat
and tried to think of
the seven times
mom tried to leave
i remembered at least three times
when she drove away
and we called and called...
when she walked down the road
and i wanted to go after her
but dad told me not to
she needed space
he said
i remember once when dad texted her
to try and find her
she texted back
that she was sitting in a field
watching the moon
spread its blankets
i remember a time when i woke up
to the music of my parents fighting
mom was hitting dad
spitting on him
saying he never gave her
money
...he never had any money to give, mom
he spent it all on you
i heard it all
at 4am
and came out of my room
because i heard once more
the melody
of my mother leaving
that oft
haunted me
a refrain
that repeated
more times than i can count
over the years
she was headed for the door
a coat over her arm
her purse in hand
her hair flying in whisps,
sticking to her lips
her eyes were wide
and livid
her face flushed
i grabbed her
i stopped her
i said
mom,
STOP.
you can't  
leave.
it's late,
it's cold
the roads
are icy
there are deer out
think about your safety
mom,
we need you
here.
think about
baby jesse.
she stayed
that day.

and then the one that burns
in my memory...
i came into the kitchen
and she was fighting with my older sister
spittle flying from her mouth
as she shouted
one of them
on either end
of the room
a table
inbetween
hands
slashing the air
trying to articulate
neither of them
getting the point
i remember
mom practically throwing a chair at her
i remember
the loud
screaming
ear-drum bursting
roar
of that familiar refrain
it surged through my chest
as mom tried to leave
again
my older sister
is crying
mom is trying
to get to the door
i grab her from behind
she's hysterical
she scratches
at me
i block the door
hold the handle
YOU CAN'T LEAVE
i tell her
she is
incoherent
babbling
screaming
her face is wet
everywhere
i take her to the couch
she tries to fight me off
push me
hit me
scratch me
kick me
but i hold her there.
mom,
we need you here
i say.
i am
crying

as i think about
the seven times
my mom tried to leave
and the one time
she succeeded
for good
i realize
that she is not the victim
she was not the one abused
wronged
used
hurt
how can the abuser
believe
they are the abused
you are no victim
no matter how many people you convince,
mother.
you gave me life
but you took it
at the cusp of my eighteenth year.
i love you,
but it was
your
fault.