Guadalajara; el infierno
(Karla Jacinto was 13 years old when she was abducted and became
one of the four million girls who are sex trafficked every year.)
By Gabriela Rose
Gold bracelets clank against her wrist and mine.
Los ojos of various shades of hazel stand out in the darkness.
Wheels burn the rubber so slightly,
shoving the van back and forth.
Unos cuerpos collide with one another,
getting stuck in the entanglement of limbs.
Hands with calluses and faces of beards drag my bones
across the line to a building standing on two twigs.
Various rooms with burgundy covered shades
and broken mirrors.
Pero tengo trece años.
Los hombres don’t care.
Eyes shut in hopes of forgetting it all—
the laughing, pointing, grabbing.
43,200 times mi cuerpo became not my own.
Screams trapped in my lungs wanting to escape.
Stuck inside; of these memories like un fantasma—
forced to haunt me for who knows how long.
10:00 am until midnight the key cards would slide,
la lámpara turns off — signaling for the performance to begin.
Arms and back would melt into positions
that once felt so strange but now are habitual.
La cama tiene cheap sheets that stain easy—
it becomes a canvas for tears.
Guadalajara; una ciudad with lots of people
who never saw the imprint in the sand
of little girl’s sneakers.