Rearview mirrors shrouded in red, white, and blue.
Drowning in a sea of taunting wails.
Pulled over for nothing.
Pounding against glass.
Orders negating pleas.
Relenting, I reached for my pocket, and grimaced at the fate’s impenetrable doors.
Click.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
All life.
All warmth.
All pleasure.
Robbed in the span of four shots.
I peered upon my reaper,
and a glass orb stared back.
A beacon of false safety.
I went limp falling off the ledge of prejudice and into the plain of salvation.
Hope lives in ink. We are all ink flowing and free.
But when exposed to water, the ink begins to bleed.
“I wrote this from my perspective as a African-American and the numerous deaths involving pull-overs and police interactions.”