i’ve never had a normal experience on
the F train.
there is no dawn or twilight on the
subway platform, no seasons save for
dank. rats building homes with those
tiny hands, studiously locating pizza
crusts and hotdog nubs. the smell
permeates and wafts, choking me in
the summer months. thick humidity
you can cut with a knife, sweat dripping
down my calves and between my tits.
unrivalled is the intense pleasure i feel as
i wash the day off of me, peeled off in
damp layers, a pile of rubble on my floor.