he’s a chalk line  
unraveled across butcher paper  
too wide to fold,  
too loud to hide.

his head floats  
above the mess of body—  
not divine,  
just misplaced.  
an outline sketched by someone  
who’s never seen a man,  
only damage.

******  
scrawled like a slur  
or an apology  
depending on who’s holding the crayon.

red here  
black there  
yellow like old teeth  
and **** on concrete  
somewhere kids still play  
with burnt plastic  
thinking it’s treasure.

you don’t see a plane,  
you see  
the after.  
the whitewash.  
the price tag taped to memory  
in three languages.

anola gay—  
name of a plane  
name of a boy  
name of a mother  
depending on how close you were  
to the sound.

his eyes are just  
holes.  
no pupils.  
no reason.  
just a place for history to leak out.

this isn’t symbolism.  
this isn’t metaphor.  
this is what happens  
when a man becomes  
the thing he was told  
he never had to answer for.

you want a message?  
here:  
paint doesn’t dry  
on blood.  

and the crown?  
wasn’t earned.  
just left behind.