My Best Friend and Me

At ten, too old        for dolls, we hide them.    The toy bin snaps            like a sacred book'sbinding. While our parents        sleep, we write ourselves    gods, and the simple plot            we began spins from us untilthe characters start        to question the rules of    their universe; they do            terrible things; they horrifyand excite us until morning.        And I wish I    could end here, but the dolls            are already changing faces,appearing in drawers. My mother's        car doors are opening    by themselves, and the house            is cold, coldas the halls between biology        and gym. We fail    our classes. Someone yells            lesbians; the word spitslike the fire pit where        my stepfather burns    dolls, poems, stories thick            with dialogue. He callsthe exorcist, whose business card        was given to him by Pentecostal    ministers. These same men            guide me through a twelve-step recovery program        for the possessed. I renounce    yoga. My parents            divorce and we move        to another town. My little cousindies, but I dream it first.