Hospital Collection: Coming

Coming Home

I touch the tea tree leaves
and the corners of my room
like a stranger lost
in someone else’s story book.
I press my lips against
my soft patchwork quilt
and feel like a child again,
searching for the frayed remains
of tears and dreams.
It’s quiet and someone’s broken
the hand of my porcelain doll.
There’s a scar down her face
that I try to erase with butterfly kisses
and soothing words,
but I know nothing is right anymore
and she doesn’t have a name.