Poems
Narrated By Other
There’s a woman on the train staring at me,
The lightbulb above your head
stings of antiseptic, reeks of camphor.
You sit there, it flickers, you wonder,
if you’d make less of an impression
with fluorescence as speech—you don’t
realize the strain of your thoughts:
they are so matte you squint
to understand them.
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