Unchained

I am hurt. I am angry. I am afraid.
The impotence running through my veins is hereditary and I want to be the last generation to carry those genes.
I am hurt, why is no one listening? Why do I have to cry, scream and break things.
Listen to me, I am angry.
The blood of people who look just like me is being used to garnish brutalities as if they were salad dressing.
And I am afraid, that one day the face on the news begging for views instead of aid will be a face that my heart knows intimately, and what am I supposed to do then? Grieve silently?
While a storm the size of the continent brews inside me? Gale force winds breaking the sails on my ship because I know in my bones we were never supposed to come this far.

I. Am. Hurt. And nothing is being done about it. There aren’t enough witch doctors in the world to mend the semas that have been broken. There are too many ways in which to explain that those seams were never properly sown together to begin with.

I. am. Angry. So fuck you and the right way to do things, I tried it your way and you keep telling me that’s not how to go about things. You’re right, fighting bare knuckled and bloody, I can no longer allow myself to confirm to your version of expression. Because being black is already too loud in any position

I am afraid. Words aren’t working. Violence isn’t either. How do we get through this? How do we ensure our survival? How do we reclaim the narrative? It has never been us, always them. But we have erupted, there shall be a cleanse.