transit

i’m standing on a train.

i’m standing on a train,

and the brakes are screaming,

or maybe— yeah, my mouth is open,

the screaming is me.

i can’t help it.

i’m standing on a train,

and i haven’t got a clue where i’m going

but i don’t think i could ever

forget where im coming from.

my knuckles are white

around the hand holds in the ceiling,

my balance has always been shit.

my hands are slippery from sweat,

but the air tastes like iron,

so maybe that’s blood.

please don’t make me look.

schrödinger’s cat,

if i don’t look,

i’m not holding my heart in my hands

that aren’t dipped in blood.

if i don’t look,

maybe i’m still alive.