Her. (rough draft)

Eggshells

It's winter,

I feel myself slipping.

My anchor is my girl.

But she's also slipping.

"It's a depressive episode," she says.

She says a lot of things.

Our sisters are with us. 

Something had set her off.

She was fine just hours ago.

Now she doesn't want me around. 

She leaves.

She walks out and doesn't return. 

She doesn't want company.

I worry.

She takes the car.

It's foggy.

It's Friday Night.