Church of my Childhood

I walk into the bedroom and see myself dead.

There I am, on the hardwood floor, peacefully cracked, 

body broken in half like my Russian dollies. 

And there is the spider who lived in the distant crook 

of my ceiling, dancing on a gossamer strand. 

And there is my wardrobe, wood chipped, doors uneven. 

I remember this place; it’s the same as it was; 

the same flowery bedspread, same CD player, 

same wilted flowers on the dusty windowsill. 

It is the same and I am dead on the old floor.

I’m a fragmented thing, wrecked with nightmares, 

bleeding on the soft pink carpet I once tumbled across.

Those are my books, pages bleached with sunlight 

because my shelf faced the window, and there, my roller skates,

their rubber wheels rubbed blunt from dusty tarmac roads. 

I once broke my wrist skating, carpal bone sliced through.

And now all of me is broken, and I’m on the floor,

kneecaps shattered, head blown open, arms bent and bleeding. 

I lie in this church of my childhood, blood seeping

as I fade between mosaics of memories,

ending where I started.