Photos By: Berjean
Poem By: Ruthie
Processed with VSCO with hb2 preset

Processed with VSCO with hb2 preset

Processed with VSCO with hb2 preset

Processed with VSCO with hb2 preset

Processed with VSCO with hb2 preset

Sometimes, as I’m standing on the platform, elevated to the stars and the pulls of opportunity, the current almost takes me.
The train is coming now
and the ground heats
preparing for this weight
like a weight upon your heart.
I enjoy the feeling of oblivion to the world
of being a nameless faceless beast riding through the trees.
There is the girl with the tiny tattooed waist
pale chunks of flesh peeking out of her crop top.
She whispers:
we are a crop top world made of filters who fade out our faces,
so that all that’s left are masks of who we actually are.
They make your eyes pop with fake color,
but there are only my eyes on the train
skimming over other eyes sipping substances
and paging through journeys into being lost.
Because they themselves want to be lost. 

I can get lost to the drumming throb,
standing there with mine half closed,
until it lurches me back to the present. 

That’s how I got robbed one time, on the Green line.
Green like my eyes.
It is danger that seeps in when you lose yourself too much
and the whole world comes crashing to a stop. 

There is the man falling, falling into the unforgiving hands of the public.
He smells like sick and sour,
like a wife long since gone
a job long since lost
like kids who don’t even call on Christmas.
Thinking about this
I lay his wooden cane against him,
heave him up every time the little cap begins to slip
from the greasy tufts of his forgotten head.
Hands reaching out
Thank you, you.
And then he falls back into dark.

For these 43 minutes
gliding by past loves, past lives,
gliding through the trees
balancing on uneven ground,
my eyes are wide open. 

But no one knows these eyes.

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