No One Knows For Certain How Much

Whenever I'm Out Late She Makes A Sandwich For My School Lunch. I Always Protest And Tell Her Not To, Saying I'll Make My Own When I Get Home. But She Likes It. She Says It Reminds Her Of When I Was Younger And Needed Her.

My Breathing Begins To Slow. The Tension In My Muscles Starts To Relax. Then, A Click In The Headphones. A Slow Breath Of Air. I Open My Eyes To Bright Moonlight. And Hannah, With Warmth. Thank You.

I Take A Slow Sip Of Lukewarm Coffee, Reopen The Book, And Read The Words Scribbled In Red Ink Near The Top: Everyone Needs An Olly-olly-oxen-free.

A Lot Of You Cared, Just Not Enough.

You Told Me I Wrote That Poem Because I Was Afraid Of Dealing With Myself. And I Used My Mom As An Excuse, Accusing Her Of Not Appreciating Or Accepting Me, When I Should Have Been Saying Those Words Into A Mirror.