Unpolished Art In the Middle of the Night

She runs with her sorrows and cools her forehead against a love that wont ever last. Her high-chilled windows are stained with lies she'll tell just to have her way. She pretends the hum of her engine is what makes her shake. The people in her life keep moving and she's left wonderin' how people manage to keep existing when she herself is so still. There's no self preservation with her, it's cowardice and she'll convince herself it's not, but it's cowardice. She'll never ignore those sexual advances towards her from men who sit beside her. Biting her nails with quickness, counting her dignity that she loss in her reflection, looking for herself in a face she doesn't recognize, and the men who sit across from her, she'll worry he'll hear her thoughts. Tells herself, I'm waiting, but she isn't good with promises she's made and whispered words are just pressed into her palms that are open. I don't think she'll listen for me. She forgot, I'm the clanging sound of the wheels on the track, the screech of the breaks as she pulls into another man's station. She'll never listen for me because, well, I'm the hurricane that's bout to destroy her world. I'm the voices that fill her car with those vanilla noises with a missing filling. She'll never listen for me. Tells herself constantly, I'm waiting, but does she know I've stopped waiting for her at the end of the line? I've stopped waiting for her train to pull into my station because when she's known in the dark, why wait for a train that never comes an wont ever stop when I'm not man?