he was convicted of something many thought was wrong.

too tired to fight back, he let his fists drop into the handcuffs that stung cold around his wrists.

he knew he didn’t deserve to be searched,

knew it was wrong for them to do,

but his black skin held in his rage and only projected silence.

his black skin told him,

“fight a different fight, another day, there’s no way they can prosecute you for rape, anyways.”

and today, with his hands behind his back, he sits in that police car.


thinking of all the times the uniforms tried to take over.

it’s ironic that their badge hangs on a collared shirt the same color as his skin.

he was born in his uniform.

didn’t have to prove himself to anyone

and he was guaranteed to fit in it perfectly.

it’s perfectly possible they think they have the right guy,

but in this country of red, white, and blue lights, the cars forget to look at the rights.

they don’t see him as innocent until proven guilty.

he’s guilty as charged,

and all he wants to do is charge at them with a fearful scream.

puff out his chest, flex his arms, and give them the lesson they deserve,

but he knows his absent words will prove more than that.

silence won’t convict him.

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