inquiet

my eyes in the fugged train window
are empty and not like my own,
their surface etched with blood and regret.
my hands shake out of tune
with the movement of the cars,
my limbs disjointed and only loosely
sewn together. there is a yellowing
bruise on my chest and a hollow
where my pulse should be.
i have been filled, voided, then filled again,
and i am still thirsty.

surely i am sickening for something.