Plunged into my ears like relentlessly ringing sirens
My mother cries for the pain medication her lack of insurance deprives her of

 

I sneak out at night hoping to get away from it all
Hoping to escape the sight of concaved faces that adorn the corners of my neighborhood like
wilted flowers stepped upon one time too many

 

"Spare a dollar?"
They ask me routinely.
I pass in silence
fearful they will see the shame embedded deep within me

 

My pace quickens as I see an ambulance across the street
Patrol cars surrounding the scene
I recognize the corpse as a kid I went to middle school with
 

 

We used to play hop scotch together
Jumping from foot to foot
avoiding any false step that could land us outside of the chalk

 

If only someone had told us that in life,
it's the steps that land you within the chalk
That you want to avoid

 

Sometimes you're shot because
you were on the wrong street
Or you gave the wrong look
Or because they had bad aim

 

Or maybe because it was Wednesday....

 

I sit in quiet parking lots
with boys who's fate knows the letters
RIP Better than SAT

 

I sit with boys who kiss me midsetence
because my lips seem sweeter than my thoughts
I imagine they're stealing my words and I submit
Knowing they only have so many of there own left

 

I head home feeling robbed none the less

 

"Spare a dollar?"
They ask me routinely.
I pass in silence refusing to look up
Fearful of being met by a face too much like my fathers
 

 

I draw a bath to allow myself to seep
I am so tough

 

Like a rock with edges shaped like shard glass
I hold myself in hopes of cutting what little skin I haven't shed
Or scrubbed away

 

The twinge of my neighborhood sits in the lot of my throat
Tugging at words like "love" and "god"
Afraid they will escape my mouth and show the world that I am human
Because where I'm from being human means being a target

 

Sometimes you're targeted because
you were on the wrong street
Or you gave the wrong look
Or because they had bad aim
Or maybe because it was Wednesday...
?
 

 

Birthed with a tongue incapable of vulnerability
My pen bears the weight of all my burdens

 

my corners wilted flowers,
maternal cries of pain,
the parking lot lovers,
The outlined hopscotchers,

 

All swaying in a tender part of being I lock in with me behind creaky bedroom doors
Because truth about it is

 

There is no right street
Or right look
And they never have aim

 

Yet still,
 my trembling hands fumble and the word
"Home"is always left stitched on the page.
   

 

And I'm left knowing
that all I can hope for
Is that one day

 

It won't be Wednesday