40500
She was 5’1 when she died
Frail and afraid
She placed the revolver in her hand
Spun it one good time,
and with shaky & nervous fingertips
She dropped each bullet in
One by one
The weight of the smith and wesson tormenting her fingertips
You could smell the fear in her heart
You can sense the danger in the room
She stares at herself in the mirror
And chose the satisfaction of killing herself versus allowing her body to be strewn in her nightgown from a tree,
That has seen too many bodies
just
like
hers
It is their favorite hangin tree for the disobedient and haughty Ni**ers
And a source of bitterness and contempt for the brown bodies that have been left hanging for days
and for the community who witnesses the horror from the windows of their homes
Hatred can spread so far, like a plague,
she thinks
while staring at the melanin on her skin
Not understanding who she really is
She takes a deep breath,
And hears the screams and shouts of the bloodthirsty mob of men come to collect her bones
And
BOOOM
the door to her bedroom is kicked in
And before she can finally place her tiny fingertips over the trigger to take her life
It is stolen by men who don’t want to save or spare her
But kill her
Where is your god?
Who is your god?
