The Space Between a Train and Outside

By Skylar Nipper

The events of how this started are out of slot.

I know that, at some point, I stood to be

On steady ground, and the noise of the train did not

Attack my ears, and the wind had mercy

On my skin that was filled with frostbite shots.

I know that, at some point, my mind did not

Melt through my fingers, set free

Like sand, and the things that I managed to clot

After the first train did not fall to debris

Through the cracks in the railroad as if they had a key

And get whisked away by the wheels, left to rot.

At some point, I knew the world with accuracy,

But in this space between the rushing train that shocks

And the outside world, I know nothing in this warped reality

That flies by too fast for anything to be watched.

Reality is a thing I cannot see.

As I get tumbled through the plot,

Time turns to quicksand, and it runs like an escapee

Both fast and slow, the words “day” and “night” rot

And mean nothing, the weeks become devotees

To the sand and sink into a spot

Where I cannot reach them below my feet.

In that same quicksand space, I dropped

Things I have said and done that I need,

And I will not get them back, and I do not

Even know they are there until a corner breached

And I catch a glimpse of  the memory blocked,

Poking through the sand and taunting me

As if it knows it should be inside my head, stocked.

When I speak through the wind and the

Chaos as I am thrown around in this warped spot,

My thoughts exit my mouth in a spree—

In a rambled, rushed fashion, and come apart

In a way that I cannot possibly insee.

Words are disconnected, much like the knot

Of a rope made by an escapee;

A rope made up of my thoughts

That is too far away to give mercy

And so tangled that it cannot

Pull me out of this quicksand, it has no key

To this space between the train and the heart

Of this dimension, this wind, this freeze,

This too-fast-to-see world next to it that is washed

In the quicksand that cements around my limbs and lie.

These are things I cannot confirm, as the world turns like a clock,

Spins like a carousel somehow flung free

From its mechanics, and now spins unstopped

Along with the swirling hell of the reality that winds.

I cannot confirm if this train is true or has been swapped,

And I cannot confirm this world is real,

But there is no way I can escape from the mocked,

The almost fake, almost real, almost disagreed,

Almost something dimension where I am docked

Inside of myself and beside myself like only an invitee.

Nothing is real, nothing is botched,

Everything is nothing and nothing is guaranteed.

Last time I woke up from beside the train and blocked

From the outside the world, I saw cloudy

Windows and polished, sterile hallways and locked

Doors and seats that have no corners and trees

That you cannot see, and I woke up gone,

Woke up in the world as nothing but an absentee.

I woke up being nothing but a blot,

Missing somewhere inside my mind that lacks a mend.

I am terrified that I will fall forgotten

Into this wind-whipped, too fast, too heavy,

Too loud world between train and earth, pay the cost

And see those windows again, to be

Missing from my mind again, to be something that stops.

I am in no shape to fight in difficulty,

No shape to be working or shopping

Or walking or learning or being,

And I am terrified of this rocked

Reality that seems to only keep speeding.

I am pulled under the wheels, body falling apart,

Sliced by the metal and the wind and debris.

It is almost fake, almost something, almost nothing,

Almost rational, almost real,

Almost nonsensical, almost gone,

Almost present, almost slow, almost free,

And I am almost me,

But there is something not.

By Skylar Nipper