carried

you feel so tied to this moment
you feel so intrinsic to the present
caught a look, 
and wanted
but after this next breath
you’ll be wondering
why am I here? 

and I wonder if the fall will kill me even without a landing, even within a dream

My stomach tightens and my heart feels heavy, writhing, discordant it is desperate for something beyond this prison of myself, my fears

At some moment the scales slipped and I was no longer simply trying to exist in some form, but I had started to feel things I never had before in my lifetime.

Too many voices fluttering like moth wings against my ears the press and curve of every caught word  and deep warm breaths of a Friday summer night

The splash the wave the space before the swallow the delicate sluice of water over your skin bubbles tickling up your cheeks as you sink a little deeper and you try, try to spit it all out

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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.'