I hold up my skies
and she cries with me
all into these city streets
We bleed in different colors
but still release a lining slick
enough to case this asphalt
I tell her about how I am always carrying
Seven explanations
as a triad blade in my left back pocket
when it doesn’t have to matter to him
so he says it very loud
and that aftershock seems to give me only the option of shake
or cower
or run
See, she’s objective
subjective
and nothing of the sort
She need not prove
in little steps
retracting, molting, and distinguished
for our dear definitions.
They may moonlight as sense
with sweet musings
except:
too many times did a figure in a body like this
bite into flesh
that wasn’t yet given the credibility
of feeling.
Less sweet does the taste become
of burnt bloodlines
giving
family ties
a new meaning.
To wait for evidence
to change
has come at too great of a cost
for some of us.
He knows so little about what can happen
in the time it takes to get there.
Over and over
his voice halts only slightly
upon realizing what he is saying
without feeling the weight in his chest
strong arms that have never ever held a newborn away from a well lit narrative coiled in a system protecting its own hunger
Isn’t it peculiar
that when they try to prove violence
as less pervasive
than the victims claim it to be
that each piece of evidence
itself descends into
violence?
It is like saying
there is less injustice than you might think
just look at table b
where we have a subjugated class
which we’ve ranked upon their knees
skinned them over centuries
and this is how we know
that it is unsafe
to trust the knowledge
of your neighbor.
I suppose they make their sense
certainly their riches
but some of us
never purchased factories
to burn flesh in.
It seems unfair
that a collective broken heart
be used
as knowledge treason
perhaps gatekeeping gives some the impression of safety
however one must also consider
not only what they are keeping out
but what they have let in.