This following video upset me. All I could do was write. Below is what I wrote
little Black boy
Baby boy. My son, my brother, my family.
I’m sorry that you have become this sausage case version of yourself.
Full of scraps society can’t digest and so they fed them to you.
My son.
My child.
The one whom I have avoided birthing because of the plague we would both become.
I, an unwed mother and leech on this system…
System.
The one that does not work and continues to try.
The cogs and wheels churning, burning for the young she’s, he’s, ze’s, and hirs who cannot hear the slow ticking of brokenness.
The problematic sound warning you that it will fall. That it will break. That it can’t take the weight while we wait for our current state to change.
To shift.
To give us this gift, of utopia.
And so it bleeds.
The blood of little Black boys and little Black girls while everyone else watches.
Scarred at the sight and yet drinking the juice from this machine — embracing the system while you my little Black boy become a parasite.
Containing no knowledge of your own just sucking that which keeps you alive.
You consume.
No one taught you the beauty of your contributions because they are afraid of your voice.
Your words. Your perspective. So unique and important.
If you were permitted the chance to speak, your tongue would lash mountains and command them to your feet.
Your knees would kneel to pick them back up again.
Your soul. Oooh, your soul would envelope our toxicity and make us whole as we cleanse ourselves in your forgiveness.
We have done you wrong my little Black boy, but thank you for trying to make right while feeling and being so wronged.
wearingmyblackness 