i’m an apparition moving into the thin triangle of a red light on wet streets, reflections, us both, blinking through a Saturday night bar crowd. I spend hardly a second where I’m supposed to be. what is this shape I make when I hold my head in my hands coiled into a chute of a single stall-black walls, black ceiling, bare light catching on the silver graffiti, the scratched and peeling stickers cover the mirror.
what fits in this space
I do not fit in this space
if I could pull these welling full at my gorge sour thoughts from my mind? my whole self I am so full of thought I could not be action;
sinking further into my own embrace I daydream
I have been sitting jaws locked tight in these moments
on that next breath out, next harsh exhale
that grind of my teeth harshens
pushing my molars into my incisors
till the soft flesh and raw root catch and I
am still here
in this stall
my body a shivering S, fingers smearing my cheeks
orange red blood, teeth against my chest
Soph Bonde is President and Publisher at Argot Magazine. She is a professional photographer in Washington DC and awkward about it. She has been described as an 'administrative machine.'