Healed Over

The tile is cold against my knees.

I’m scrubbing out the mildew grime

until the fluorescent light shows me

the things I’ve carried through the time.

A jagged line across my chin

from when the porch swing broke its chain.

I remember how the zipper snagged

the fresh red edge of all that pain.

I was ten and didn't know the wood

was rotting right beneath the paint.

Now I’m thirty, on the floor,

feeling old and feeling faint.