She runs through a crowd of loud
Mouths and impatient feet.
To a greasy whistle  
And a speaker that vibrates on the train.
She hands a ticket to the Conductor.
He smiles sweetly. Her stoic porcelain
Weakly reflects, and he notices the ochre
Tangles nesting in her eyes, and lilacs
Stained within her skin.
Her glace froze and she sends
Fingers to adjust the jacket over
Her unkissed collarbones,
Composed, but fingers tremble,
Hiding bruises of
Black and blue.

The rain had just finished
Falling. She draws on the atmosphere
Stuck to the glass.
The streets became unlit and lonely,
She looks to her left hand at the ring
Which reminds her of the knuckles the kissed
Her cheeks.
She tries to forget,
Pulling out pages of Hemingway
And lays a bag underneath her heavy, pounding
Head, reading to her wounds that
Shed her once-loved-skin.

She cries
And then she cries
Again.