“My life matters,” he declares,
To the mirror on his wall,
But the glass is almost shattered,
The shards about to fall.

“My life matters,” he mutters,
They’re tailing him out on the street.
This couldn’t have been a mistake, he concludes,
But he’s ready to meet his defeat.

“My life matters,” he chokes,
Doing nothing to halt his restraint.
His heartbeat is getting slower, he notes,
The harsh pain is growing faint…

“His life mattered,” they cry,
Witnesses of the cruel death.
“You were meant to serve and protect,” they scream,
“Not deliver his final breath!”

“Their lives mattered!”, the protesters chant,
Crowds of them flocking the road.
“Why is their skin colour a burden?
Why’d they have to carry the load?”

“My life matters,” the little boy whispers,
Hot tears streaming down his dark skin.
It doesn’t matter enough, he muses,
One final tear trails down his chin.