Dissociative Identity Disorder
I am a house with many doors,
Each locked with keys I do not own—
The laughter of a child upstairs,
A weeping girl who walks alone.
One sings to stars in trembling light,
Another rages at the moon,
And I, the quiet one they fear,
Watch dawn arrive too soon it's near.
The mirror shifts—my face is new,
My name a sound I half recall.
I live in echoes, fractured rooms,
Where no one voice can speak for all.
Yet there is balm in whispered truth,
And hands that do not flinch away—
A gentle word, a steady gaze,
Can thread the night with day.
And one by one, the doors unclose.
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