if these streetlights could speak,
they'd narrate stories that would
keep you awake at night

and if these corners could scream,
they would never stop screaming

and if these streetlights could speak,
and these corners could scream,
would you listen?

are you listening?

I have met dates online.
I've had friends set me up.
I've gone to so many dinners,
and I've gone home with
more people than I'd like to admit.

I have slept with men
and I have slept with women.

I have left someone
and I have been left.

I've been in relationships
that ended mutually,
and I've been in relationships
that ended in heartbreak.

I learned the hard way that
*** is not equivalent to love.

I learned the hard way that
I didn't know what love
was supposed to feel like.

I learned the hard way that
I deserved so much better than
what I was doing to myself and
what I was letting others do to me.

I learned the hard way that
I was making the wrong choices.

but I am so glad that I learned,
even if it hurt.

some people never learn
to see their own worth.

it's 2:56am, and I'm lying next to a stranger.
when the sun rises, I'll already be gone.
I'll have already climbed out of his bed,
found my clothes, tiptoed
to the front door, and vanished.
the house will be left exactly as it was.
his car will still be parked in the driveway.
the curtains will still be drawn.
the withering houseplant in his kitchen
will remain unwatered.
everything will be left untouched.
when I leave, it will appear
as if I had never been there at all.
but I was.

two weeks from now,
he won't remember my name.
he won't remember anything
besides the feeling of skin on skin,
of a warm body pressed up against his.
in his mind, I will have been
nothing more than another body.

I always imagined that going home
with a complete stranger would feel wrong,
would be terrifying, that not knowing
who is next to me when I am falling asleep
would be scary.

a few months ago, it was 2:56am
and I was lying next to a stranger.
this time, he wasn't a complete stranger.
this was not my first night with him,
far from it. I knew him. he knew me.
I wasn't gone when the sun rose
in the morning. the house was left
exactly as it was the night before.
the only difference was that this time,
I was still there.

two weeks after that night,
he would remember my name.
he would remember my laugh,
my freckles, my eyes
my voice when I was tired,
how I talked too fast
whenever I was excited,
the way that I looked at him
when I was in love.
and I would remember all
of those little things about him,
the same way he would remember
all of those little things about me.

I always imagined that sleeping next
to someone who I loved would feel safe,
would be comforting, that knowing the
person next to me when I am falling asleep
would be wonderful.

for the most part, my imagination
wasn't incorrect. I was right when I pictured
how incredible sleeping next to
someone who I loved would feel.
I was right when I pictured how frightening
sleeping next to someone
who I didn't know would feel.
I was right about most of it.

but I was wrong about one thing.
while lying in a bed at 2:56am,
I realized that the memory
of sleeping with a complete stranger
hurt far less than the memory
of sleeping with someone
who I once thought I knew.

I am not white, but
my skin is light enough
that I can walk down
these suburban sidewalks
without fearing for my life.

my brother shares my blood,
but he doesn't share my privilege.
his skin is not light enough
for him to avoid prejudice.

growing up, I couldn't see
how we were any different.
to be honest, I still can't.
but now I know that
other people can.

we are apart by two years
and fourteen and a half inches,
and we share only one parent.
but even now, I can't understand
why that makes us so different.

the ironic part of it all is that
people are afraid of him, but
I'm the one with a criminal record.
my brother has never
seen the inside of a cell.

I remember this one time
when we were walking
and this man pulled his truck
over to the side of the road
to ask me if I needed help.
I looked at him and said,

"this is my brother.
if I needed help,
he would be helping me."

he stared at us in disgust
and he drove away
without another word.
I was afraid, but
my brother wasn't.

I couldn't understand
why he didn't react.
now I realize that
he was already used to it.

my brother and I
are adults now.
we've both moved away and
we don't live together.
we aren't so young anymore.
we aren't innocent anymore.

we're still best friends,
and I still can't understand
what makes us so different.
I still see him on the holidays.

I still love my brother
and he still protects me,
the same way he did
when we were kids.

but it hurts me
because I have realized
that even though I love him
more than anything,
I can't protect him.

every time the TV
shows another black man
shot in the streets
in broad daylight,
I shake with fear.

I call my brother
and I'm not religious but
I pray that he answers.
I can't calm down
until I hear his voice.

I can't convince myself
that he's at home safe
when I see so many young men
who don't ever make it home.

when we were kids,
we lost our older brother.
he drank too much and
got into a car one night
and we waited, but he never
pulled into our driveway.

we thought that he had
stayed at a friend's place,
or maybe he had forgotten
to charge his phone.

we never thought that
his car was flipped over
at the bottom of a hill.
we never thought that
our brother was
under a white sheet.
we never thought that
we wouldn't see him again.

I am so afraid that one day,
my phone will ring
and I will find out that
my brother was shot dead
because of his skin.

I am so afraid that one day,
I will lose another sibling and
there will be another funeral
and my life will have
another gap in it.

I am so afraid that my brother
will become yet another statistic.
I am so afraid that my brother
will be stolen from me.

I am afraid that one day,
when my brother has children,
they will grow up facing the
same hatred that has existed
for so many generations.

one day, my brother
might be the next face
shown on the news.

one day, he might have to teach
his children to move slowly
and to put their hands on
the dashboard of their cars.

one day, he might sit at home
and shake with fear
worrying that his child
will be stolen from him.

one day, I might have to look
his daughter or son in their eyes
and tell them that their daddy
isn't going to come home.

I don't know how
I would survive if
my brother or his children
are stolen from me.
I don't know if
I'd even want to survive.

so how is it possible
for you to steal the life
of my brother, or of a child,
and to then walk away
as if nothing happened?

how could you
destroy the lives
of an entire family
and a whole community,
and continue living your life
without any remorse?

how do such hateful people
exist in this world?

and when can I stop fighting
for this world to change?

when will I be able
to pause and take a deep breath?

when will my brother and I
look the same to you?

will we ever stop being afraid?