Parchment

The clock is ticking.

On all of us.

55 days.

 

55 days until they’ll open that gate to the wrong country.

It will be a short life outside these walls.

I will scream and bite.

“The prisoner achieves the required quota at work but he only works for his personal gain… he claims not to be able to live within the GDR due to a lack of personal liberties and rejects re-integration… since his behavior threatens internal security and the integrity of the GDR borders we inquire about suitable arrangements upon his release… he will reside with his parents… -address-…"

“The prisoner achieves the required quota at work but he only works for his personal gain… he claims not to be able to live within the GDR due to a lack of personal liberties and rejects re-integration… since his behavior threatens internal security and the integrity of the GDR borders we inquire about suitable arrangements upon his release… he will reside with his parents… -address-…"

 

This morning they called two from the neighbor cell for transport.

The tension is unbearable on those days.

Why not me?

 

Working again because I need to see my folks.

Plus I need that care package and cash.

My skin is like parchment.

 

“There is nothing on you bud.

You’re like a broom stick.”

Unfunny shower chat.

 

Desperate to hear about the lawyers from my folks.

They’ll visit again next week.

 

For the last time.