That Day

Loretta sat on cold grey, a chair made of cement.
Under a dark tree next to a walking path.
In a town she didn't know, after the trains had stopped.
A car park in the distance beamed light out that only just touched her. 
A stark white glimmer on the pink rim of her eyelids.
The day was ending and her eyes were sad and falling.
That sad day was over-shooting itself and the slow, dragging foot.
That day she had tried something useless and useless.
Something stupid and stupid, heartless and heartless, but nothing could stop the pattern.
Just something, to see if it felt different to do something different.
Something to break apart her mortal tank,
That filled and emptied with blood, every smile-less day. 
To feel something.
But she felt none of that now.
That morning in her light blue coat.
She cut the lining in the kitchen at 5am.
She slipped in a knife, a big one, handle down, sharp tip up. 
Just to see if nothing would happen.
She slammed the draw and then the door behind herself.
Crossed the road, cold, walking fast.
That day was all frost, thick on fence posts. 
In her light blue coat and dark blue jeans.
Two shoes poked out the bottom, both brown (both matching - it'd be weird if they weren't).
That day was all steam from plastic chimneys. 
At the station she imagined everyone talking to each other.
Strangers met, and helped each other.
"Your train's here now, you better go. Nice to meet you."
She imagined with her hand in the pocket, next to the sharp thing.
Step on to find a seat.
Legs crossed, one stacked on the other, on the shitty carpeted train.
That day was all slipping out of the station.
Staring out the window.
Thoughts like animals, running free and searching for food.
All, silently gliding out of the city.
All, mist and no sun.
Nose wet, like a stamp sponge at the post office.
That day was all that was.
All, streetlights at dawn.  
All, icicles on electric poles.
All, sweat drips from arm pits. 
All, cuts in the lining. 
That day she took a knife on the train.  
All, frost covered apples on leafless trees. 
All, fox in the grass curled under warm tail.
On the train to see if she could change.
Nervous in the pit of Loretta, she waited.
All that is day, turned into night. 
That day was all that was.
To see what would happen.
In the fault-line of folded arms and daydreams, nothing changed.
This time.
The nerves went dull, cold and hunger-withered.
What happened barely happened.
That day went like the last, which is only just understandable. 
Only just unchangeable.

(photo)