Sleeping bag

I don’t know who previously owned my sleeping bag.

I don’t know who ashed their cigarette onto it and burned little holes - where the plastic or vinyl or whatever it’s made of started to bubble and harden, scratching at my skin while I lay awake staring into the darkness while my eyes adjust and try to make out the ceiling.

I don’t know who chose it - a bright orange and green sleeping bag - faded from what smells like about 40 years of sun and weather damage.

I don’t know where it came from. I don’t know why the zipper doesn’t work. I don’t know if it had many owners or just one who loved it until it stopped working.

I know it keeps me warm. I know it smells like moth balls. I wonder if someone died in it. I know it makes my other blankets slip off my bed In the middle of the night.

I know it’s pilling. I know it's itchy.

I don't know where it came from, or where it will go next.

Maybe it's recycled textile, maybe it's frayed by time into numerous chunked up pieces choking sea turtles. Maybe it's a national flag, an oil rag or lining the walls of a coffin. Or softening a nest for bird eggs, or left to rot and mould and breakdown for the next couple of thousand years - if that's even possible - or exist in this same exact state for eternity.

Previous, current and future owners, awake, annoyed and stuck.