She sat with smoke in her hand,
holes in her heart,
blood on her wrists,
and pain in her chest.

Noone understood,
noone tried,
noone cared,
atleast that's what she thought.

She had given up on it all,
love,
family,
friends,
life itself.

She was broken and bruised,
simply confused,
lonely she cruised,
day to night, night to day
all by herself.

"What will the future bring",
she thought for herself,
searched for answers she never found,
moved from cigarettes to the needle,
all she needed was one hit, just one hit
maybe everything would go away
It didn't go away...

One hit turned into many hits,
homeless and sick,
cold and hungry,
on the ground,
she was never found,
in time...

The girl who had given up,
soon became a body so cold,
started to rotten,
and now her body reflected how she felt all along,
she was dead, dead to the core.

The girl who had given up,
and everyone gave up on her too.

She simply crossed the border,
the border from life,
and into the grave...

So **** them all, let's build the wall,
call us *******, we are *******
without a choice. It's us or them,
so let's get it done, and then we can
talk about Peace and Love, and make
love with those we love, make friends
and make *** with those we know. That's why
we now should build this wall. So **** them all.
It's us or them, at the end of the day.

It's not the way, we know, we are aware
that they deserve to breath and live and work
like we deserve. But I'm afraid, we can't
do anything. Sorry to say.

The border to me
XUAN CARLOS ESPINOZA-CUELLAR·WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 21, 2015
  
The border to me is a constant anguish,
A big pause button,
Often in dreams I dream of Mexico as my lover
And he waits for me,
And waits.
The border to me is my grandma’s rosary,
She said she’d hold on until I could go back,
Until she couldn’t.
I recently found out that for years she’d scold my cousins for using my table games “he’s coming back, and he’ll ask for them…”
And she’d save t hem in her old, rusty closet.
The border to me is a big pause button,
I often dream of going back,
Who will I be then, when I hit play?
Who will I speak with to recover my grandmother’s prayers,
To collect 12 years of unclaimed hugs,
All the wrinkles and gray hairs I missed on her hair,
And every step I couldn’t walk by her.
But one day I will cross back,
In the middle of songs and candles I will conjure her spirit,
And I will look in the back of that old closet
Where she saved my table games
And there I will find her love
And her songs, her advice, her songs,
And the little pieces she left for me, hidden for me,
When she envisioned the day
That this pause would be over.

We came upon slowing traffic.
Inside the bus
Standing passengers were thrown
and grips tightened
as we edged forward across
the unfinished road.

We passed the sun-glassed
occupants of cars and busses
and the rolled-up sleeves
of lorry drivers who's
tanned arms hung out
of every window, and
who's fingers tapped
an unheard tune.

I stooped to stare at the
dancing distance of  
the baked tarmacked
highway.

Our eyes stung and wet
The metalled road blazed.
Our approaching gaze silent.

Gripped passports Identity papers
rosary- beads
-Letters of transit -
not needed;
The border did what most
borders do-
and shrugged us through.

Laughter becomes all languages.

Later that afternoon,
I sipped from the glass I held.
Jez turned to me and asked,
"Is this what it's like to be drunk?"
I smiled as I slid my wine towards her...
...
words and foto T Carroll..

Torment, guilt, and regret.
These are the fruits of today.
These poisonous fruits,
grow on every tree in my garden.
Aching inside, they laugh at me,
taunt me

These three feelings combined,
wrapped in silk,
ruin my love,
my life
my dreams

Grey matter
Sledge hammer
Take the latter
To the former
Find the edge of
Non-existent borders
Til they break
What's at stake
Who knows...
it's all grey.