This Girl Poem by Hsiao Wei Chen

She takes the train everyday.
She stands at the station and waits
for the wave of people
like ocean tide to pour her into
the train that just arrived at the station.

She walks the streets everyday.
She stares ahead, oblivious to everything around her,
the steel and glass buildings that rise into the sky,
the fast-driven cars that leaves a trail of smog,
and the wave, again,
of people with countless faces
that blends into one another.

If you get close enough,
you can hear her hum a song to herself,
as if a band is playing in her head.

If you get close enough,
you can see how her hand seem to clasp itself,
as if holding on to the hand of a friend,
or a lover.

Even if you get close enough,
you can feel her look through you,
and make you wonder,
what's behind you that's so interesting.
But when you turn around, there's nothing there.

She tears of the last of her toenail
from her bleeding toes,
the people on the train had
stepped on her feet again.

She rubs a sore
on her shoulder,
The people on the street had
bumped into her again.

She wonders why people,
even if she gets close enough,
look through her.
Am I that uninteresting?
When she looks in the mirror,
she feels, it's true.

She takes the train everyday.
She stands at the station,
and closes her eyes.
She hears the sound of the distant train
approaching.
She takes a step forward.

The wave pours in,
and then it stops.