There are oceans and valleys and peaks and rivers
And lands on fire.
Under our breastbone, there, flames and ripples and caverns of
Shoved and crammed and multiplied,
I touch it but it hurts,
Burns my fingertips.
It bubbled up recently, my lips aflame,
My mind nimble and quick to destroy,
The victim was an 82 year old white man,
It rubbed against my lesson of respect for my elders,
And yet I could not stop myself from the fight.
It wasn’t even that my fists were up,
The salt was poured, the slippery slope of
Hatred spewed, all those cries and groans
And creaks came out in a spasm.
I was not in charge of my soul at the moment.
That is not present here.
I am not done fighting, I can tell by my stance,
It is unapologetic, it is full of fluidity,
It asks me to take note because opening this valve
Has brought me not shame but