somewhere, a child of God is held at gunpoint and their wings grow from the soil of bullet wounds in their brown skin.

tw for police brutality and distressing content

You were born crying. I wonder if you knew what fate had in store for you on that hot June evening, so you came out of the womb grieving for the life that lost in a gamble of skin color and a mind working with tinted lenses. They said your smile had the aura of honey - molasses poured over an already sweet breakfast - because that ear-to-ear grin was the cherry that took the cake.

Your mother loved you, she still loves you, and she will always love you. Remember how she always said that you would live longer than her, and her grandchildren would have your beautiful brown skin and your cute dimples. She'd give you the secret recipe to her chicken soup - the one she'd always make when you were sick, even if you were faking it - so you could make it for your kids.

So when she hears the news that you were shot on the way back home, she drops to her knees and lets out the loudest, heart-wracking sob, and God hears it and cries too. She thought the gunshots were just those families setting off fireworks and firecrackers for the Hell of it, and the butterflies in her stomach were for nothing. 

She knows the risk of being black. She prayed every night and every morning you had to leave the house that you would return. No matter if you had a smile or a frown on your face, or if you had a story to tell her about some kid bullying you. As long as her baby came home at the end of the day, that's all she needed. 

When you didn't come home, and a police officer was at her doorstep instead, how else was she supposed to react? Grief grabbed her by the throat and choked the sobs, enveloping her body with a cold, numb feeling. You weren't going to come home. Never. 

Her baby was dead on the streets. She wished it was her dead instead of you.

You were terrified for your life - you were walking home, and you saw the police cars, and that fear took hold of you. You tried not to walk faster, but when a voice called out to you, your hands moved up almost immediately, shaking. Terrified. No one blames you for it - the peaceful protests have been going strong, but the riots get more coverage on the news, and your brothers and sisters are the ones in the wrong for fighting for basic human rights. 

The police officer was afraid of you. They asked you to step back, but you couldn't hear them over your pounding heartbeat. They kept asking.

You weren't complying. You were a threat.

You fell to your knees. They were yelling, but you were having a panic attack. Sharp breaths, shaking, shaking, cold sweat, you don't want to die. A mantra, echoing in your mind, louder than the screaming police officer unholstering their pistol. Deaf to the sound of your breakdown. In the back of your head, your life flashes before your eyes. 

Mama loves you. A birthday party - how old were you? It didn't matter, because all you needed to know was that you were happy. Your first kiss - it was sloppy, you were young, but it was a first. That time you were scared by an alley cat and your friends laughed at you for it. That presentation in your English class that you got a perfect on. Your best friend belting whatever song was on the radio, and you laughing and singing along. 

You don't want to die.

You had so much ahead of you. You hadn't even graduated high school yet, but you were so close. Your grades were good, and you were thinking about college. You wanted to be able to visit your mom, so some university nearby was perfectly fine with you. 

You don't want to die.

You hadn't even had the opportunity to find the love of your life, and go on romantic, cheesy dates with them. The chance to argue, to get mad, to cry, but communicate and have everything turn out okay because you wouldn't want to break up with the love of your life over a stupid argument. You'd be loyal and send them silly memes and cute pictures when you're apart and be plain stupid because love does that to people.

Please.

Introducing them to your mom, nervous about whether or not she would approve.

Please.

Her smile - gentle, soft - melts away all your anxiety, and you laugh and help your mom when she tells you that she's going to make a celebratory dinner. About time, she would say, and you'd roll your eyes and smile at your love, and that would be that.

I don't want to die.

The gunshots hit you before you can even scream — four of them in your back. You bleed out in the street. A bystander caught the entire ordeal on camera. 

You didn't deserve it. 

I'm sorry. No amount of apologizing will ever bring you back. But I'm so, so sorry.