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    Little sister poem. Be woke.❤️ #ajamonet #poem Found these wings on Sunday just strolling through DC. I’m reaching the part of the program where I’ve got so much good in my life but so much fear. When people ask me what my plans are for when my work permit expires, I kind of want to answer with silence and leave it at that. There’s no plan. There’s no plan for when that happens because something needs to pass in Congress before then. The longer the delay, the higher the chance there will be a lapse in a protected status or a  direct jump into being undocumented. There’s no shame in being undocumented. It’s just a really difficult path. Right now my hope is that people with wings, you know, permanent residents/citizens force their representatives at the state or national level to do something. I feel wingless right now. I mean, I’m entering rooms with sad poems in my mouth. I mean, I may or may not be spending a lot of time crying. I mean, I’ve got a job, poetry, bread, my mother, but no future and it stinking hurts. AND I wish I didn’t have to remind people that this is my reality, but I don’t see any new rages at society other than the regular fighters who have been fighting too too too long.💔 Practing my senses. 
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Dear Nora, words from your husband

The weeks after you left, I started writing you letters every day. I have a pile of them, aging with dust.

I don’t know what you want, what kind of wonderful thing you expect. It must not be enough to say that I miss you, that you are more than my little-something-endearing but thoughtless-name.

The children asked about you every day for three years. These past years, they’ve been preoccupied growing up. They consume my time; it’s a wonder I get anything done at the bank. Oh, you should see how fast they’re growing—hair length, clothing size, even the length of their smiles. They’re growing into a faint reminder of you.

I think of you when I hear them burst into laughter, how you filled the room with that reckless energy of yours. I can still remember the first nights of our marriage, chasing after you and catching you by the waist. Like our last night together, before you felt obliged to leave us behind. I can still hear myself in that brief, violent rage, how horrific I came across.

Dr. Rank died the very next morning. It was like everyone was mourning for you, too. I’m still mourning. I can’t figure out why it’s a good thing to be rid of a woman like you. It’s what everyone says… they can’t possibly know you.

I have learned nothing about laws, except that I must have broken one making out of you a collector’s antique doll on display. My trophy wife, mine, mine. I was suffocating you without trying.

I wish you the best in whatever company you’re keeping these days. I hope that you can finally breathe. There is not now or has ever been a time for our marriage. I fear we may not live to see that wonderful thing happen in our lifetime, whatever it may be.

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