Living With Land Mines

Photo by Femi Matti

I tiptoe through the land mines with grace,
and the audience applauds,
they applaud, they applaud.
I explode. They scrutinize the look on my face.
They call me a fraud,
I’m a fraud.

There’s a gun in my face.
There’s a gun at my back.
They just gotta say I had a gun.
They tell me to relax.

But I can’t,
I can’t, cause I’m black.

I tiptoe through the land mines with ease,
and the audience applauds,
they applaud,
they applaud.
But I take mine without saying please,
and they call me a bitch,
they call me a dog.

There’s a knife to my throat.
There’s a strange man behind me.
If I disappeared now,
would you try to find me?

There’s a gun in my face.
There’s a gun at my back.
They’ll show me on the news,
and excuse the attack.

It’s okay,
it’s okay,
she was black.
It’s okay,
it’s okay,
she was black.

I don’t tiptoe through the land mines, at all.
I get scared, and I fumble, I fall.
I am blown to small smithereens.
They complain that the city’s not clean.

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