This is what you make me feel like: not hell, but heaven tipped on its head.
Strangers told you I was the loveliest woman at the bar. You stroked my skin like silk, like a traded thing.
I fainted at the second-to-last stop. Three seconds three minutes three slaps in, I woke up to your laughter, hushed as a brothel. All six seats at the back of the train were occupied. Twelve invisible hands on my windpipe. Shh.