By London Little

1.
(Breathe)
Why is it that my heart is so heavy.
Why is it that I spend so much time (gasp) twisting my mind (gasp), my thoughts (gasp), my heart.
(Gasp)
Breathe.
Breathing is hard,
The air consuming my lungs
And I know you’re probably thinking, “London, that’s what’s supposed to happen.”
Well, my mind must not be able to comprehend that logic because I take it as a threat.
An attack on my life.
A will to take me out, anyway it can.
I’m sure it’s not a foreign thought.
I’m sure when we are shot and killed our people feel the air.
Blood.
Right, they feel the blood rushing, draining.
The only air that is filling their lungs is the type they can’t grasp onto.

2.
Breathe. (breath)
Since we are on the topic let’s talk on the constant discrimination of our people.
Nah, bigger than that, let’s go over names:
Daunte Wright
Andre Hill
Manuel Ellis
George Floyd
Breonna Tayler
Atatiana Jefferson
Aura Rosser
Stephon Clark
Botham Jean
Philando Castile
The list goes on.

So many of our people suffering from the dehumanizing treatment by those who are supposed to be here to protect us.
Those same acts draw back decades even though they might look a little different.
Those same acts are the reason families are torn apart.
Leaving another mother without a daughter or son.
Leaving another young Black boy not growing past the age of 21.
I’ve heard what happens to kids that look like me.
You thought this was just adults?
Nah, they target our kids too.
Taking us out left and right, making sure we can’t put up a fight.
My sources say they track killings all the way back to 2013, there’s more than that.
It makes me want to scream
(Scream)

175 fatalities of people younger than 18.
You know what that means.
Another story on 12 o’clock news.
Another protest.
Another family without their child.
When is it going to be enough.
How long will they keep breaking our families, our communities, our minds.
(Breathe)

3.
They try and steal our power, our thunder.
They want to be like us so bad but would never want to be us.
My ancestors who live through me, they inform me of how they were treated.
I’ve heard of gunshots that fire through little Black kids’ bodies.
I’ve heard how their bodies drop down on the concrete, I can see it now.
They use our blood to paint over their sins
They dissect and pick apart our brain stripping away pieces, hiding them in a locked box.
They say our lives are insignificant and not to be given a second thought,
That when we are murdered in the street, it is justified by the twisted sense of — “I thought he had a weapon” “He was reaching” “I was scared for my life.”
Phrases used to justify their actions.

My heart aches for every person they strip life from.
When I breathe, I will think of them.
Of their lost breath.
Of their lost time.
Let us breathe.

1..
2..
3…………….
Oh, wait.
I forgot.
I can’t breathe.

(London Little, 15)