Rush-Hour

The heart thumps in my ears
Bodies squish closer
Brush my hand, my hip, my hair
I shiver
I can smell them
Intermingling molecules
All sweat and too much perfume
The smoke—I could choke
Heart in my throat
Where to look
I squeeze my own hands
Dig broken nails into the skin
Cracks fingers inside the palms
They’re cold and clammy
Another stop
More bodies pile in
I can taste his neck
Scratching stubble
I’ve nowhere to go
An eye catches mine
Don’t!
Please don’t
Don’t look at me
Another stop
More bodies
Less space
I can’t breathe
Her eye on mine again
I can feel the colour of her iris bleed into mine
Brown to blue; the earth to the sea
She can see every crease
How my skin is dead and withering
The corpse paint can’t fake life like it used to
I can’t see my feet
Only a stranger's ass
Her leggings are snagged
And the boots muddy
The heart keeps thudding
It’s in my throat
Get off!
Is it time to get off?!
Another stop
And more squeeze in—smiling clowns
Just breathe!
I feel the noise in my dry eyes
If I get off, I’ll have to do it again
Wait it out…
The majority push and shove off the stop before mine—grinning cat-rats
Departing they rush like my soul screaming to break free
Breathe
Breathe
It’s just a fucking train.

Subway

One cannot avoid eye contact when entombed within the old musky tube. Dank, dark. As if being underground wasn’t torture enough. Everything so close. Restricted air flow, foot flow, low flow. All so close to burying you alive. Suffocating amongst concrete, dirt, strangers and metal. Any second it could all cave in and one of them could catch my eye…

© Natasha Sinclair