First Prayer.

You brought me back there-

it's similar to the way I feel when I eat Teddy Grahams.

I can hear East Avenue at 8pm,

and feel the polyester comforter tucked and scratching under my chin.

You are not there because I do not know you yet.

They had come over earlier that night and destroyed my bedroom.

They hurled my toys at each other-

a horrific 'clack' every time a stuffed animal struck the wall eyes-first.

Our mothers downstairs-

were unaware of my panicked attempts to save Sarah the Bunny or Amy Doll.
Billy Doll lost his pants.

When they were called downstairs to leave, 

I sat stunned in the pile of bears, cats and cows.

My jewelry box was splayed open on the floor,

and the ballerina slowly pirouetted just above the carpet.

Her music sadly twinkled until the wind ran out.

So I am there-

after the massacre-

after my mother and I put everything back-

after she made the bed to hold me for the night.

The window is open half-way, 

and the plastic tip on the mini-blinds' tether taps the moulding.

I watch the white/light-blue-striped wallpaper turn a smooth grey, 

as the sun falls further behind the hospital hill.

I pray they never come over again-

but if they must, I pray for them to be good.