July 4, 2020 [9:46pm]
Every time a black person dies to racism in America,
It is plastered all over my social media
And I am reminded that the world is messed up.
These reminders without my knowledge,
Take me to digital burial grounds and obtuaries of people like me
I do not have a choice
As my eyes see bodies laid to rest in hashtags
Wake keeps in shouts of ‘say her/his name’
Reposts as cries for justice…for freedom
I am dragged to burial grounds I didn’t consent to visit
Burial grounds of people I didn’t know existed but valued as human beings
As brother, sister, aunty, uncle, mother, father, friend
And I run because processing the occurrences will mean processing the pain
The pain that comes with the hurt
“That could’ve been me”
“That could’ve been me” is the song of every black person
Bound or free
That could have been my
cousins, my sisters, my friends, me
Black life has become so cheap
As complex but futile as the human body is
The black body is disrespected
And every time the black body is killed,
by hands that are none next to God’s
It is being said to black people ‘that we are cheap’
What is in the atmosphere?
What is so strong in the air that once it is inhaled, it thirsts for black blood?
Black blood on white hands
Why is it so normal?
Why does it seem like black has always equated to victim?
Why?
What song will I sing to soothe their children to sleep
When those young minds are aware that white officer hands took their own
What songs will I sing to soothe their pain, to tell them do not be afraid
What will I say when they grow up and realise that the odds are against them too because of melanin?
For the young child that has to become an adult ever so quickly
For the young eyes that have seen things that the mind is not developed enough to process
I cry, I cry
I weep, I lament
As the earth cries to as she soaks in the blood of a man because he was black
As she soaks in the blood of a woman because she was black
As she feels that man gasp for air because he is being suffocated by a police officer
And she can’t revive him.
Hands that are no where next to God’s taking life as though he were not as fragile as the man he is killing.
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