High-Speed Train
The breeze from the window almost felt
Like someone’s breath from a tiring day, or perhaps
A sigh, tickling my eyelashes and pink
Cheeks. I hold my hand out, imagining
I am in a high-speed train with the window
Open, drinking the day-old sky’s dew,
Observing the blurs of the buildings, the music coming
Undone like the heavy hard and metallic knot in my body.
The lights roses and broken hearts, the
Shattered bottles ripped letters and decaying memories
Supposed to be contained but out, vulnerable like
The little girl crying on the playground
The other day. The gust ruffles my
Black hair like my mother did through the sleepless
Nights that cover my eyes nose and mouth. Now,
Instead of sheep I count
Buildings flowers and lights. Imaginary roses and real
Broken hearts like the scars in my mind, the
Same scars I leave on my paper when I pick up
My pencil and curate flimsy homes for
The wandering thoughts in my head,
The unforgotten memories that wish to
Be forgotten, and the young girl who hates
Machines, or rather, the people who
Make them. I close the window shut, my hair
Already ruined, sticking to my
Face forehead and sweater in awkward angles that are
Unattractive unappealing and static, devoid of the
Aesthetic of the mind brain and soul, like the
Medicine in my tongue, that shirt
I tried on the other day while the broken
CD player was on in the store, the sound
Of listless typing. It leaves an aftertaste,
Herbaceous bitter and ugly. I stare blankly into
My reflection, expecting to hate the wash of
Color that dilutes my complexion out to paper, but
I only see black, the black of my hair wrapping
Around my eyes, the black of nothingness and
Suffocation, from a world spinning around too fastIn artificial color
Monotone humming
And meaningless scratches
Where I am no longer an
Architect of words, but a manufacturer of machines.
First Last Name is Bio.
The Albion Review 