A shadow we become in the midst of promise and peril.
A tingling voice fed by the imaginary monster of hope of prosperity.

They sell us a dream from which constant rude and lethargic awakenings auction us to the highest bidder.

We are political bargaining chips, fillers, collateral, surplussed aims and aspirations.

We are worth our blood but never true citizenship, but what does citizenship mean when our siblings are murdered with no consequence?

Quick some of us are to fantasize about trading fences and walls for humanity.
Ignoring that the very potion that will hold those borders together is our flesh, and the dreams of our children.

I always hoped for more out of this narrative, some sort of comedic relief or an alternative ending. But I’m just sitting here in this never ending opera with horrible singing and beer.

II.

Aquí, behind this rock I call my safe voice I stay rooting for you, I just don’t have it in me, the more crumbs we get, the closer we are to the cake, but if you get the bakery, I promise you I’ll be your cashier, plus I love cheesecake.

Waiting games... I don’t recall the last time you looked at me. Can you stamp me please?
Something within me still longs to be free and I don’t know what to do.

Fear of repatriation, when there’s really no country for you, you nationless, culturally ambiguous neoliberal residue.

One day they will ask me to speak, I will walk slowly towards the podium as people await to hear what I have to say, they imagine I’ll sing an anthology of resilience, but instead I’ll just say “ya pa’ que!”.