The clock is ticking.
On all of us.
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.
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.