Black Lives Will Matter

I feel physically sick. Like a sick that makes me feel like the doctor has just told me a lump is growing in my stomach. Like the lump keeps growing as he delivers this news and there is nothing he can do. I feel sick as though I have looked to the heavens and they have closed the doors on me. Like the golden gates of liberty turned into ash and disappeared before my eyes. I feel sick. I feel like his knees sat on my neck, like I couldn’t breathe. I can’t breathe, I can’t hear the air softly travel through me as the world continue to move, the earth spins on a tilt and pretends like humans don’t destroy it. I feel sick. Sick like the man waving the bystanders away from Derek Chauvin’s knees. Like he isn’t molesting my neck, he’s raping my circulation. I feel sick like them ruling George Floyd’s death as nothing. As pre-existing medical issues. I feel sick like my white counter parts feeling triggered by not getting a hair cut. I feel sick like I am AMERICA. Like the world is watching me fuck myself over. I feel sick like I am the one that killed George. I feel sick like I am the murderer. I feel sick. I feel sick of everything, like I want to tie a rope around my neck and sing freedom songs as I no longer hear the world around me, like Mother Nature no longer exists within the dimensions I will travel to. I feel sick. I feel sick because I have become a confliction. I am torn from both sides. I am torn by isolation. I am torn by rage. I am torn by pain. I am torn by anger. It am torn by you. Your white hands wrap itself around the rope that plants me to its branches. Your white face hiding behind ignorance. Your white lies playing on repeat on the news. I feel sick because you kill me. You tell me the world is my oyster but you enslave me to the reflection of my skin. You make me dark, you make me violent, you make me dangerous. I feel sick. A sick like I witnessed my father dying and I was nailed to the cross, my arms spread wide across the sky like wings but the only place I call fly to is the bloodshed. I feel sick of this. Of everything. I feel sick of feeling sick. I feel sick that children see this hate. I feel sick that I feel hate. I feel sick that I want to be a mother, I want to raise children that are not bounded by their skin colour. I feel sick that the world is unwell and I can’t make it better. I feel sick that fairytales aren’t real. That I can’t pull out all my teeth and ask the fairy godmother to fix the world. I can’t scream THAT THE WORLD IS BROKEN and I don’t know what to do. I feel sick that all I can do is WALK. WALK. WALK AND WALK SOME FUCKING MORE. I FEEL FUCKING SICK.

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