Violent memories slice
my hands open and leave
no scars.

When my fingers reach to
grasp onto privilege something
that I've always known it emerges
in shards and I lose my grip.

Then I remember what my beating
heart always reminds me of.

My fathers and brothers
before have outrun bullets.

My skin still gives discrimination
an invitation everywhere I go.

My hair is a topic of conversation
and my voice if raised points

a target against my back.

Taught to keep my thoughts
suffocating me with my hands

up high.

Skeletons carried on my spine
along with the names of dozens

of dead bodies.

My mother tells me I have to
keep fighting, even if my skin

blisters and my tongue goes dry.

To stand up on swollen toes
and look them straight in the eye.

But even to ask a question my
body goes limp, my brain is set on

on fire and I can't speak.

There are too many documentaries
about dead black men and

girls and is it selfish that I don't want
to be added to the list?

Their stares burn my skin and I can't get my mother's words out of my head,
When they stab you in the chest don't forget to smile.