Skeletal on the bed.
Cold, cold, cold seeping in,
Pushing me out into the 5 AM
Crusted eyes and altered heart
And squeezing into my scuffed
Suit and shoes, like little crocodile
Claws, and the early morning 
Weight of being alive suffocating
The small parts of me and the tiny 
Pieces of trash tossed
Away as the door shutters behind
me. “Any symptoms?” and 
Pushing my hair up and 
Harsh grey eyes and cuffed
Grey hair and pillars of navy
Blue suits. I just want the
Sword of Damocles and papers
Of places and rocks of
Everywhere. I just want the
“Your IDs?” and the curled back
And clicking down the stairs
And red glorious hallways leading
To nowhere. I want to fall
Into America 
again.