I saw you last year

and you were

beautiful.

You'd gone missing

and didn't make the 11:00 news.

But perhaps it's better.

It’s strange to imagine

that your 16 years would be remembered

for only two days time.

Before you fade

amongst the dark shadows

of young names and smiling pictures.

Of recited headlines

and forgotten stories.  

The city hardly looked for you.

Said you were probably a runaway.

But I will think of you

dark girl,

quietly,

as I find your face in my mirror.

 

I saw you last month

and you were

breaking.

I watched you writhe on the ground

as he dragged you by your black braids.

I gasped

inaudibly

when you were thrown against your desk

and beat to the floor.

I shuttered

when his black boot

kicked you motionless.

You looked to your best friend

and your brother’s boys.

They clenched their fists

but turned their eyes down.

No one’s ever seen you cry.

But that morning the tile was wet

with your helplessness.

 

I saw you last week

and you were

bare.

You said you offended them

with your complexion.

That your hair

was unsightly

and your face unlovely.

They said your daddy was a thug

though he’d never seen bars.

You asked me why they called you ghetto

and broke my heart in two.

Who silenced your joy little girl?

Who dare steal your pride?
 

I saw you last night

and you were

breathing.

Your last breaths.

In a pool of your own blood.

Your mama will cry for you

and forever remember

the asphalt stained crimson.

She’ll holler at your funeral

but that evening she'll look

soundlessly

towards an infinite sky.

And in its deep visage

gently wonder if God

or even His stars

hear her black prayers.

 

Today, America, my sight gives way to speech.

I have watched and witnessed

but no more will I withstand

your dark crimes.

From this day,

my brothers will not die in silence.

You cannot kill my sisters with apathy.

I will no longer whisper of brokeness.

Today I will scream.

For the liberty you promised me

so long ago.