San Diego

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.