The Subway

You usually feel it before you see it,

It begins as a light breeze wafting through the otherwise still air,

And sometimes a light rumble in the floor.

If you put your hand on the concrete,

You can feel it,

The train coursing its energy through the floor into your body,

You can feel the vibration of the city through the palm of your hand.

But you do not do this,

Instead, you keep walking and notice the light breeze,

Slowly but surely getting stronger.

Then you see it,

The train lights seemingly speeding up as they come at your stop

And for a second before the train passes

As you feel the wind blowing past you,

You wanna step out,

In front of the train.

You wonder

What it would feel like to go from zero to sixty instantaneously,

Whether you would slide beneath the train

Or stick like a bug on a windshield.

You wonder if it would hurt as much as the last time you were in the subway,

The last time you were in this melting pot of drugs,

Work,

And sex,

And were caught off guard.

Then as the moment passes

You reach your hand out to touch the side of the train,

Feeling the cold metal speeding across your skin.

You feel every nut and bolt as it runs underneath your fingertips,

Every divet in the train,

Every imperfection.

The door opens and you step in,

One foot in front of the other.

Careful not to make eye contact,

You stare at your beige skirt,

“Neutral colors are safe,”

You tell yourself every morning,

“You will not stand out,”

“You will blend in,”

Reaching into your purse you feel the cold metal of the knife you’ve been

holding in your bag since the last time you took the subway,

Since the last time you were caught off guard.

Running your finger along the blade,

You feel it bite into your skin

You do not flinch,

You simply close the blade.

Getting off the subway you are a bit too carefree,

A little too happy,

Your smile too wide,

And you give someone the wrong idea.

Again,

you are caught off guard.

You feel it before you see it,

It begins as a hand grabbing your arm,

Ringing the blood out of it.

As he puts his hand on your face,

You can feel it,

The horrible fear coursing through your veins.

The helplessness.

You feel for your bag,

It is right beneath your arm

But you do not reach for the knife,

You do not stop him.

Instead, you focus on his breathing.

The light breeze on your face,

Slowly but surely getting stronger.

“It will be over soon,”

You tell yourself,

“He will get bored,”

“He will grow tired of me,”

He does.

And you realize your torn beige skirt was not safe.

Neutral colors are not safe.

You lie there and reach for your knife.

You run your finger across the blade as it bites into your fragile skin.

You revel in the pain,

You welcome it.

Today, you wanna step out.

As you feel the light breeze blowing against your face,

you wonder if it would hurt as much as the last time you were in the subway,

the last time you were caught off guard.

So you put one foot in front of the other.

It brushes you,

Just slightly ruffling your beige skirt.

It brushes you just before you feel it,

A hand grabbing you arm,

Ringing the blood out of it.

It begins again.