they built me a home with no windows-- dollhouse-size on the coffee table (although we never did drink coffee).
I’m here the way the dust is—part of everything else and catching the light every now and then.
I’m like the broken clock in the bathroom-- the small blue one that winds up like a music box-- my pulse was their radio static song.
the new TV doesn’t burst into a frenzy when they leave it on too long, that white noise screaming to be heard, and the new couch isn’t sunken into the shape of my body the way the old one was, before they took it away to make room for the hospital bed.
they built me a home with no windows-- marble blue dollhouse my daughter carried over the threshold like a bride (old-new-borrowed frozen ocean blue)
she pressed her lips against the rooftop-- single hailstone-- left a greasy chapstick stain. there are no doors, yet she still wears the key around her neck.
Rebecca Kokitus is a part time resident of Media, PA just outside Philadelphia, and a part time resident of a small town in rural Schuylkill County, PA. She is an aspiring poet and is currently an undergraduate in the writing program at West Chester University of Pennsylvania. She has recent work in Rag Queen Periodical and Moonchild Magazine, and more work in other places. She tweets at @rxbxcca_anna.