It feels right that there is blood today. Because there was no seed of revolution planted. Not today. Not in the weeks before today. These streets/these courtrooms/those hearts are hollow. They echo with old stories that don’t hold true anymore. They burn with a fire that doesn’t resonate.
And I wonder if we really know how to birth this new world together. Or will we always clog the streets, wounded and contained? Will we always have to scream/break/cry so hard to try and prove that our lives matter? Will somebody always try to (re)write our story?
My body scrapes/contracts/sheds. It pushes the world from it. Says you cannot have it. My heart. My hope. My insides. Not today. Because this blood is mine. And his was his. And this grief has made me sterile.
