No Uniforms At My Funeral

image

image

Magic. Magic. What the fuck is magic. Everything I’ve believed always turns out tragic. An eye for an eye but I lash out and deny. Move forward in ignorance and ignore all the lives. I fought to fit in, to blend like the rest of them. Bought all the lies to pretend with the best of them. Test of time has shown I’m dwindling, withering. Small fish in a pond hoping to move onto bigger things. I was told as a kid “Son I know you can make it” But its these same people that hold my heart as its breaking. My name may be different but my story’s the same. I am trapped by my labels and am blinded with blame. I’m nothing more than my race. I’m nothing more than my gender. I’m nothing worth fighting for so why not surrender? I’m not even a headline. I’m only a caption. I’m just another dead black kid with the same old reaction. Chant my name for a week then they’re back to routine. Reading tabloids and gossip in a dumb magazine. My blood stains the streets and you pave a new way. Can’t be bothered with reality to ruin your day. I’m nothing more than a picture. I’m nothing more than a face. I’m nothing more than a story that won’t receive a court case. I’m not a victim, just a symbol. I’m just fuel to the flame. Wait a week. Wait a month. They won’t remember my name. God can’t save you from the crimes you’ve clearly committed. Communions of chaos. The choir is livid. Police stick to the common collective that freedom and protection was always selective. Badges don’t yield power, power lies underneath. In the heart of the code that we all should believe: I’m not a race or a gender or an orientation. I’m a human being with humane complications. I believed in Superman but only bullets seem to fly. Bullets taught me that both people and dreams can die. No uniforms at my funeral means no products of a system putting flowers on my casket saying “The world world will surely miss them”. My life was not an appointment that you can just miss and make anew. I was birthed by a woman you now say “I’m sorry” to. Apologies don’t cut it. Your words will never cut it. You say that I was priceless but my funeral’s on a budget. The choir sings its outrage and the grave is bland and floral. They preach the second amendment. I say “No guns without morals”. Badges don’t give you power and neither will fear because you’ve unleashed a monster that will refuse to adhere to the rules you instill which is “call 9-1-1” because I know it’s not magic down the barrel of that gun.

image