Today Isn’t Any Better

To be weary of the ways of the world is to be black. To look over your shoulder and be uncertain. To feel outside of yourself — not because of your own knowledge or mind but because of the place you stand. You live painfully aware of what it means to be you, to other people. Do you belong? It’s the question we are face with everyday. Every single day. And there are no answers because nobody is listening.

You talk and talk; scream and yell; cry and plead. You write it down and videotape it but nobody believes. Yet, should anyone complain of the same aches you do — should anyone feel the weariness that you feel, they become indignant. All of sudden the pains are no longer excuses but rather, priorities. Priorities rather than “cards” or distractions. Your conditions become less of an anomaly and more of a rally cry to turn even more against you.

Killing the messenger always.

But we are more than the messengers; we are the oxen. We carry the burden. The ones who cry, who worry, who die, serve time. The ones who must continue creating; who have the tools in place to organize the shattering world because we live in broken pieces. There is nothing poetic about it. The words I use are merely the ones I’ve been taught but none have been created to express my reality. “Anger” is not theword when I am asked to pardon those who would sell my flesh for capital gains. Those who think the life that my mother, grandmother and great grandmother lived is so unjust for them, they’d rather bathe in their blood than live through it as my kin did. Those who cannot find the bootstraps they’ve whipped us with to pull themselves up.

Those who ask “what I need” and when I say “allies” ask for recuse. Those who find strength in my positive force — the one I use to stay alive in this wretched place. The one I cultivated to keep breathing in a space that is never ever safe for me. They use it to wake themselves up, hug it out of me and then relay it back to my enemies. Those who ask me to pardon their racist relatives in the name of unity. The very unity those people just voted against.

It is us once again being asked to fit where we do not belong. Us, once again, that must carry it all. Though there are others that recognize our burden they simply do not have the backs to share. We stretch and pull once again and feel every joint aching. Feel every muscle shaking under the weight of a word that has yet to be created. To tell it like it is would be to say this:

Once again you’ve scapegoated Blackness and Otherness. The conditions with which you have demanded people of color remain are now yours and you want my empathy and my sympathy and my help but I couldn’t care less. You face the same extinction we’ve been threatened with since the foundation of this flawed paradise. The same extinction you brought against the natives of this land to create this malignant utopia.

I will not feel for you. I will not cry for you. I honestly pray, you starve through the winter dear Grasshopper — and make no mistake winter is here. For it is your burden to carry that you didn’t harvest, that you didn’t pull yourself up. That you stewed and cried “woe is me”. It’s your excuses and race card that prevent you from seeing the forward march. The #poorwhite has no excuse.

I hope your king brings you hope. I hope his lies warm your bellies so you don’t see yourselves starving until it’s too late. Blood will not bring you sustenance. My carcass will not sign a check to save you. This is your doing and though many will die for you, as usual, this time you will die too. Maybe then you’ll see that nothing was in your way all along. You are the wolf blinded by your own sheep’s clothing.

Grow up.

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