I am asked questions about what it means to be a woman .What it means to be someone from my state, to think about how technology has changed us, what respect means, how much scores mean, and it's time I answer.
There is a little boy, sitting alone in a chair.His tiny cemented hands are resting on his lap, and there are cameras flashing, as if his scorched skin wasn't painful enough. He blanky stares, he's robbed of all that he has had, and he doesn't know it..He tries, rubbing his tears off but it stings.So he does not. He's five and has been bruised, and he can not cry.
A month later, his brother dies.
Another month later, a little baby covered in white and splashes of red, is being carried into a bus.Its tiny body fits into two hands. It's strange how reasons change, .A small baby, its age cries when it wakes up from sleep, and here... it's crying after the world has been shattered into remains, suffocating smoke, and sirens.
It's the same. A viral video.A bus.Night.And flashes.
But this time, a head rests on the baby's tine shoulders. He looks more vulnerable. Tear gas.
Funeral blues go on, and all I see is thin skin, parched from weapons.
And at the end, after all that's been done for one reason.
He looks up, and starts praying.
How many more Youtube videos. How many times do I have to chant about love, before I stop believing in my own words?
