Two Poems by Rebecca Kokitus

to the friend i have lost

I am more. I am more than soft enough to fall back on. I am more than empty.

the first time you opened up to me about not believing in god I mistook that for depth, for

intricacies I had yet to know. and in the way I’ve loved every person who’s told me a secret and

every person I’ve seen naked I loved you. but i was wrong—you didn’t believe in god because

you thought you were god.

I have cut girl hair with craft scissors, with the same scissors that have sliced girl calves and girl ankles. when we cut her hair you wondered why she saved it, the cardboard box full of chocolate bunny brown for so long, but I understood why she wanted to keep it close. and then you cut your hair yourself one day—you despised disasters you couldn’t make your own.

we were all half formed butterflies slicing at their cocoons. I am still growing. I sew myself in

like the eye of a corpse. I don’t have to sleep with my eyes open anymore because I’m no longer

sleeping next to you.


my stomach is a balloon with its lips around the garden hose.

once I drank so much water that it made me sick.

I thought, this is what it feels like to drown.

I am swollen dark matter. I am not made of stardust.

this body is an ill fitting dress I can’t take off.

memories of struggling in dressing rooms,

turning garments inside out to escape them.

I can’t turn this body inside out so I try going in from the outside.

does it burn calories to bleed? I wonder.

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. More of her writing can be found in Philosophical Idiot and Lemon Star Mag, among other places. She tweets at @rxbxcca_anna.