A Month in Memoriam: Day 28
I got a target on my body, somebody, please protect me…
I got a target on my body, somebody, please protect me…
I got a target on my body, somebody, please protect me…
The poet spit his piece with a fury I’d never seen before.
As he repeated the refrain, hands raised in the air, his voice began to crack.
Tears fell forth from his eyes.
I did not look away. My heart cried out for him.
He took his seat, placed his head in his hands and wept.
Does this shirt make me — or anyone who wears it — a target?
Or should I say, more of a target?
Earlier that day, I biked through DC.
The streets were teeming with people because of the warm weather.
I did not feel invisible in the slightest.
I wondered if people were attempting to read the names on the shirt because I was pedaling slow enough, though not intentionally, for them to do so.
I made a pit stop at a bar I used to work at for some water.
Eyes. Eyes. Eyes.
Maybe I looked like I didn’t belong in the bar.
Maybe it was the shirt.
Maybe it was both.
I got a target on my body, somebody, please protect me…
I got a target on my body, somebody, please protect me…
I got a target on my body, somebody, please protect me…
