Transcript:
I write about the Black boy
Because don't I owe him at least that?
Isn't this his home?
Didn't he grow up here?
Wasn't this body his long before it was mine?
Isn't he too worthy of an army of dry mouths?
I write about the Black boy
Because don't we need proof that he is indeed a boy?
Wouldn't we rather him a poem?
Or a hashtag?
Isn't it easier to lose his name in a song?
Don't racism sound better than snapped neck?
I write about the Black boy
Because didn't you make this about race?
Was he ever allowed to just be a boy?
Because don't Black kill the boy?
Because don't Black kill the boy?
Because didn't his parents sacrifice everything?
Because how many parents have lost everything?
Ain't God have more than one son?
Aren't they deserving of an empty tomb on a Sunday morning?
I write about the Black boy
Because wasn't he scared?
Because isn't he scared?
Don't he know how easy it is to lose his body?
Ain't the proof lying in the street?
Or in a playground?
Or in his home?
Because isn't the burden of proof on him?
Isn't his anger always followed by a chorus of
"Show me, Show me, Show me?"
Somehow, isn't a body never enough?
Didn't you need eyewitnesses?
Didn't you need video?
Didn't he oblige?
Didn't he plaster Facebook with videos of his skin being unraveled?
Hasn't he watched himself die again and again and again because you asked?
Because what part of that is supposed to make him want to live?
I write about the Black boy
Because aren't you still asking about his father?
Don't you still want to know if he stole those cigarettes?
Don't you sleep better with a reason?
Aren't you still sleeping?
Aren't you still sleeping?
Aren't you still asking questions?
Don't you still expect an answer?