I hide in the nonfiction section
At the library.
From there I go to reference,
Then fiction,
Then children's,
Then periodicals
Until I am hugging myself
In the corner
Of the biography section.
Books are my life
But they are caving in on me.
Hunger sets in.
But the time is not yet.
My head hurts,
Hands are weary from writing,
Seems like I never really wrote
These words…but I did.
I was hardly looking at the page.
I've checked out a totally
Of 20 books;
I keep getting lost in
The poetry
And native American sections.
Time is late
And I am lonely.
I will go home later than usual
But no one will know
I'd been gone so long.
At least by the time
I go home,
Mom won't be there and I
Won't be scathed by her words.