The stain that traveled

The subway press crushed me—tight, too close,

a sudden heat that wasn’t the summer air.

A wet slip in my hand, a whispered panic.

The tissue—crumpled, stained—fell, desperate, in the trash,

under flickering lights humming too loud.

I sat down on the cold tile floor,

legs folded awkward, waiting for the tide to ebb.

The metallic scent sharp enough to burn,

but no one looked, or maybe no one dared.

Blood doesn’t ask permission,

and I, caught unarmed,

watched the shame drip like slow rain

to stain the day.