their hearts bleed for us while bleeding us dry;
yet they turn their heads to the other side
when our blood is spilled on ***** sidewalks late at night,
when the sun’s on the other side of the world,
when justice is asleep
and the facts are on their side in courts
which our blood, which our loved,
are too poor, bled dry and white,
to keep up with,
or to speak up about the jury’s prejudice.
their hearts bleed for us while they watch us bleed to death
from the wounds they’ve inflected upon our bodies;
yet they turn their eyes towards the sky
and act like they’re blind and scream,
“we all bleed red,”
as if we don’t know that,
as if we haven’t seen our own blood on the sidewalks,
as if they have seen their own blood spilled before,
as if their fake sympathy isn’t a side of the metallic,
copper-tasting irony.
( but our wounds will heal and we will rise;
we won’t bleed again but when we inevitably do,
our blood won’t be red — it’ll be golden and holy,
and our stories, and our bodies,
they won’t be pushed aside.
our martyrs will light up the night sky,
for they are stars and their names will immortalised.
for we are gods and gods don’t bleed nor cry. )
