You see all these stories
of a life taken away
by a cruel misunderstanding of
someone young enough to play
with the kids in the yard
who cut their wrists on a shard
poking out of the dirt.
This kid he walked along the concrete
and they could tell he was young by the weight of his feet.
He had a toy
in the palm of his hand.
He was only a boy.
He wasn’t even a man
but they feared him
for the color of his skin.
Their fear fueled the movement of their fingers on the trigger
and they opened fire even though he was small and they were bigger.
Thirteen bullets for every year he had lived.
He ran and cried
while the blood poured out of his young body.
And they ran in the other direction
not caring if he was found by the other authorities.
They’d see his color mixed with the blood and assume he had done something
while his mother would screech at the news of his demise
and she’d desperately run towards him with a hand full of coins
and try to close his green eyes.
They were open so wide,
when he died.
And he’d never ever get to play outside.
What kind of parent has to bury their son?
They’re not to blame
no, they aren’t the ones.