as soon as they see the light of day
and let out that faithful cry
their backs are brushed roughly,
swirls of red and white, circling
over and over.
the target covers them like a second skin,
the breaths they breathe numbered like
the ones on their chest.
but they don't know that
the very
beats of their heart
pumps of their blood are counted.
that their smiles and grins,
their laughs can be calculated
before their death.
how could they know that cops
practice every day, aiming their guns
at the practice targets, laughing
as the shells drop
and the bullets ring?
they couldn't know that
their hoodie was the bullet in the gun,
and their skin was the finger on the trigger.
they couldn't know that
their walk and their talk could
bring them to their demise.
they didn't know that their empty hands
were a weapon.
how could they?
how could they know
that they had a target on their back
merely for being black
dressed in a hoodie, now stained bloody
as those bullets fired
and rang like the church bells
of his ceremony?
he didn't know
the last thing he would see
were the red and blue lights
of cops as they forced lead
through his head
and in his heart.
he didn't know he'd die.
he didn't know he'd die.
how could he?
he was so young.
they were all so young.
each and every one of them,
unaware of the target practice
they were a part of.
as the police tower of the slain boy,
one asks
what's the score?
the other one looks down, examining the
dark blood under his glittering boots.
right in the heart and head,
a ten.
YOU ARE READING
The Mind of a Black Girl
Poesía"The black girl who will embody you all through my small voice that will soon become powerful." ~~~ i have a lot to say and it's on these pages.
