Wake Up Call (I love living in the city)

My eyes claw open. Her throaty yells punch through the night air. WHO ARE YOU? WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU? Right now I don’t know. I try and shred the sleep from my brain and answer, her voice demanding again and again WHO ARE YOU WHO ARE YOU? Rubber squeals on tarmac. A banshee to her northern roar. How old do we think she is? I’M TWENTY FUCKING FIVE. All I hear is her shouting like an abusive tape player on a loop. I only grasp the one half of the conversation. It feels as if she’s playing drill sergeant to me at 5am. I DON’T KNOW WHO I AM. The tyres screech through my head again. Wrong answer. I try and think with the screaming, the burning rubber scolding me like a teacher for perpetually tumbling on the wrong answer. I DON’T KNOW I DON’T KNOW. Her yells subside into a rumbling laughter. I still don’t know. Her age is still apparently 25, not 20. The sound of tyres slinks off; her bellow rolls softer round the streets. I’m still thinking about who I am.