Woman.

Hands Up, Don't Shoot.

CDs.
A pack of loose cigarettes.
A stolen Cigarello.
A toy gun.
Breathing.

It's all enough to kill me
My dark skin a crime,
A crime that has lasted for the 16 years I've been walking,
And another 400 before.
A target on my back,
Hands lifted towards the sky,
Deep breaths from the terror.
White, pale skin being a nightmare.
Knees planted on the ground,
My darkness cascading on me.
A gun planted on my chest,
A gun aimed towards my body,
Bullets become my best friend.
And my best friend becomes a coffin.
My life as important as a gnat in the warm spring,
My life as important to them as the dirt they stride upon.
To be black is a welcome mat to death.
To be black is to defy nature,
But be the very reason for it.
To be black is to build a country,
And even after being free,
You can't be too free.
To be black is to never be alone in the street,
Always talk proper when talking to the white man,
Always keep you hands up and in sight,
Yet you'll be dead anyways.
To learn to love the water cause black bodies have always loved drowning there anyways.
To not speak even when asked.
To not be too black,
But still black enough to kill without second thought,
To have a brand on your ancestors back,
And pay for that brand centuries later.
To have a caution sign on your forehead everywhere you go,
Because they'll always be afraid.
To not be loud
To not be proud
To not be ghetto
To not be strong
But
To be weak
To be afraid
To be quiet
To be silent
To keep your mouth shut
To have manners even if that means to not have dignity.
To be black is to have people ride the backs of your ancestors because they could.
Because they can.