we never usually relate ourselves to a stick of wax
we’ve all heard the dreaded cracks
of the two dollar pack of crayons
looking at the broken pieces
in our kindergarten hands
the teachers pat our backs covered fleece
but no one is there to pat her back
When she finally cracks
and shatters in to a million pieces
grandma isn’t here to knit fleece sweaters anymore
no one is here to pick up
the broken bits of her self esteem
or her dreams in which shattered with
but you know mental illness was just a myth