Who are you?

I'm...

Who are you?

I know who I am.

Yes?

I'm. I feel weak.

Spit it out.

I'm a season that hasnt been invented yet.  I'm spring falling backward into winter. So sudden, I feel the rug pulled out.

Don't say that, you have websites and blogs to remind you you are beautiful with confidence, mascara, and a few well coordinated clothing items. Repeat after me: silly, fierce, beautiful.

This might work.
(and
I think this these words, once well meant, have fashioned into commercial vultures-- or deer (over run, and stripping off the bark of unpecked, unscathed langauge)).

Until I wake up at age 85, as if untucked from my bar booth. I'll look around and rub my eyes.

I'll wake up my husband, but he wont wake up no matter how hard I try.

Don't die. You can't die.

How did I get here? I'll say over and over to myself. How did I get here? I can't believe it. I'll hold my pale arms up in front of my face turn my hands around and around.

My husband wont wake up. How did I get here? I say.

I bang my knees on boudair furniture as I clamour,
crawl away from the bed. It's not morning then.

But it's not dark--
Just dark wood.
I am an umbrella with sun on the inside, I wash
out nightlights left on for passed out drunks.

How did I get here? I just can't believe it.