Stuck

Tapped my card and the bar froze.

Red light. Blinking.

The metal wouldn't move.

Behind me, the crowd

was a held breath,

and I was the problem—

the body that wouldn't go through,

the person keeping everyone

from where they needed to be.

I tapped again. Tapped.

The light kept blinking like a heartbeat

that stopped caring about the body it was in.

"Move," someone said. Not to me.

Just to the space I occupied.

The turnstile stayed stuck,

and I stood there learning

what it felt like to be an obstacle

in your own commute,

to hold everyone up

just by existing in the wrong configuration.