I’m caught in the speed of sound and a suspended race of bullets. Adrenaline weary. Grief bores holes of conflict and confusion. I realize this is nothing compared to my brown-black sisters and brothers. I don’t want to make this all-about-me but I also can’t say ‘we’ when I’m writing first-person.
The aftermath of violence is a vice of twisted and torn. I will not get over it or forget it. There’s a chant in my mind of names who had lives but now there are those who’ve died from point-blank-blasts of murder. There’s fragments in me, embedded in syllables and suddenly I start to cry.
It’s next to impossible to transition back to normal the life that must cook and clean and work and pay bills. The laundry is in heaps of punctuating ellipses. Dot. Dot. Dot. But the sentences of my heart remain full.
I’m in a space conflicted and confused. My back has slipped into a protest of its own. And even the rain cries on the sleeves of midnight and dawn. I hear the trees of ever and green weeping too.
I don’t know how to move on and post just normal because nothing is normal after murder and carnage. Therefore I write this to let the whiteness of my heart bleed with the horrific trauma against my black-brown sisters and brothers. It’s not pity. It is a bottomless sky-sea of respect. Please know, I stand with you on the front row for a deeper needed justice.
Respectfully & with love,