Documented

The fluorescent hum of the terminal

vibrates in my molars.

I hand over the booklet with the dog-eared corner,

the blue laminate peeling just a bit.

The man looks at the 22-year-old in the picture—

all jawline and hopeful, flat lighting—

then looks at the grease on my forehead

and the bags under my eyes at 6:00 AM.

I’ve lived through ten years of bad shifts

since that shutter clicked,

and the border agent knows it.

He stamps the page like he’s finishing a chore.