You should be hurting.
fighting the feeling of being crushed under the weight of wrong.
Under the image of bloodshed,
of last, painful, soft and fleeting breaths on the way to death.
The day that daddy died
his blood red on his shirt, the car seats forever stained.
Of never wearing this again, because last time it was The Day That Daddy Died.
You should be breaking.
Hear him say, "it's okay," as he slips away.
knowing it is not.
this is how we live
subjected to a grown man's gun
and his fear of the helpless.
The walls you keep up between yourself and THEM.
They should be crumbling. Bitter bits of bullshit; swallow them and feel the distress of
with your own skin.
You should be wailing. For The Day That Daddy Died. May your feet sink into the ground today. May your footsteps make potholes in the concrete earth, may you carry him around.
Feel this pain.
We need you to feel this pain
as things stay the same
(Philando, my love
and all your kind
you haven't lived in vain.)