Revision 1
My arm coils around the pole as a boa constricts its prey. I don't usually stand on buses. If I have to wait in the cold for one with vacant seats, I will. But in this moment, I am overcome with the particular mental restlessness that manifests into physical agitation.
Today it is warm. The kind of perfection that contrasts with my struggling imperfection in mocking breezes, azure skies, and glazed sunlight. Buses, as if they can hear the internal cry of human suffering, have a metropolitan way of soiling even the most pristine days, if only for the ride.
With eyes staring but filtered, I seek refuge. I become noble Woman-of-the-Plains, skin sun-roasted and dark and voluminous hair ablaze as if possessed by a presence of its own, until I blink, dissipating bus-mirage. Returning to bus-aberration.
And all I can think of is how my left hand is gripping the phantom infections of those who stood before me. All I can think of is how my left hand festers in a pool of vileness left like some sort of sacrilegious gift to some abhorred god.
Upon getting home, I wash my hands as if I could scrub away the confines of my skin.
Today it is warm. The kind of perfection that contrasts with my struggling imperfection in mocking breezes, azure skies, and glazed sunlight. Buses, as if they can hear the internal cry of human suffering, have a metropolitan way of soiling even the most pristine days, if only for the ride.
With eyes staring but filtered, I seek refuge. I become noble Woman-of-the-Plains, skin sun-roasted and dark and voluminous hair ablaze as if possessed by a presence of its own, until I blink, dissipating bus-mirage. Returning to bus-aberration.
And all I can think of is how my left hand is gripping the phantom infections of those who stood before me. All I can think of is how my left hand festers in a pool of vileness left like some sort of sacrilegious gift to some abhorred god.
Upon getting home, I wash my hands as if I could scrub away the confines of my skin.
♠ ♠ ♠
It is unlike myself.