The intercity night train
heavily sways left and right,
I cannot even stand up
to put my backpack in the
upper cabin. I am not sure
whether it’s the rough track, or
simply because I got the
endmost car, ’cause I booked my
ticket at the last minute,
reserving whatever seat
remains, hoping to escape
a party you don’t deserve
so I don’t need to pretend
that you are a nice person
and half-heartedly thank you.

I don’t like sitting next to
strangers, but thankfully this
one is fast asleep without
even trying to ignite
meaningless conversation.
There are no empty seats, so
many people—crowded. Yet
strangely, I wish this trip would
last forever, so I need
not use the return ticket,
and come back to the place where
tunnels don’t seem to end, with
no apologies given
to many of us, scarred
over your words and actions.

The train’s woman’s toilet
seat is dirty, with the blood
of whoever is struggling
with their period—or at
least, I wish that were the case.
I don’t know how many times
I wiped it, so I could sit
without fearing possible
contamination, just like
how I’m on this runaway
train trying to break free from
toxicities. And for that,
I am not feeling guilty.
If anything, this swaying
train peacefully drifts my thoughts

away from your ignorance
and that narcissistic brain,
wishing I could flush them down
the drain. Journey on this train
is I bidding my silent
farewell to you, and with
all the swinging, I wish you
to lead a thoughtful life stripped
from any peace of mind, so
there wouldn’t be more soul-pained.
I’ll throw a pity party
for you, like when we first knew
you, and put our deepest trust,
unknowingly, what you would
poisonously give us
in return.