Cold Association

There's a feeling I associate with winter. The feeling always comes when things are going wonderful, but on the brink of being awful. It's almost more bitter than it is sweet.
"What the hell am I doing?"

It's the way the cold air kisses my exposed cheeks. It's the way my lungs feel when they became icy. It's the way the anxiety of what is to happen bubbles in my chest.
"What the hell am I doing?"

I remember feeling homesick and desperate to find something familiar. I looked up to the steadfast sky, but even that was a stranger. I searched for the bears, the hunter, the princess and queen. But they weren't there. I said out loud, "Even the stars are different here." No one responded to me. No one even glanced my way as my scared, hot breath fogged the air in front of me. My nose started to run as my eyes swelled with tears, "I'm cold. I'm going inside." The cold, my sweet alibi.
"What the hell am I doing?"

You turned up the music as I sat in your car. You told me to drop the blanket and get out. We're going to dance. I don't dance. But I grabbed your free hand as you gently put the other on the small of my back. I rested my head against your chest and heard your heart beating. I gazed past your car, past the Livermore hills, past even the clouds. The stars twinkled bright as I asked them,
"What the hell am I doing?"

I ran out of my house and to my car, holding on to my purse and hood as if my life depended on it. I felt my messy ponytail thump, thump, thump against my neck. The buckets of water pouring from heaven and the broken street lights made it seem impossible to drive half an hour to school. Terrified, I put my hands on the steering wheel and pressed on the gas peddle. Not nearly ready to go I said to myself,
"What the hell am I doing?"

Everything starts with I and ends with me. It's time to grow up, and deny the definite theme echoed throughout my life.
"What the hell am I doing?"

Yours until the pigs fly,
Alessondra Marie