Eight hundred and sixty.

We crowd a confined space,
Split into groups of thirty,
Eleven to nineteen, and we
all have the same exact face.

Sometimes we don't need to
trudge our way past each
other. Sometimes, we are
greeted by a warm smile.

Most times, we're greeted
with a snarl. Most times,
we're shoulder to shoulder,
no room to breathe.

Strangled sobs in a cubicle.

Fed up looks on a bus.

Cigarettes hanging between
finger tips.

Signatures on a list.

Earphones drowing
them out, and eye
lashes sticky with
forbidden mascara.
But never open tears.

-[Hi. My name is one hundred and fifty three.]