My face hit the hard floor in one quick sweep,

My skin was bruised as I lay there, wondering what happened.

I didn’t expect what happened next..

I felt a heavy weight on my shoulders,

Knee bones boring holes in my back,

Jostling breath out of my lungs.

I tried to hold still,

Perhaps, if I didn’t move, maybe he’d let me live.

But he wasn’t going to budge.

Hatred filled eyes judging me for being black,

As though we get to pick the color of our skins when we’re born.

Besides, what is so black about being black?

The way I see it, white has no meaning when the heart is darkened by hate and prejudice.

Oh the lies we tell ourselves that we’re superior to others,

Forgetting that death is an equalizer regardless of race.

For a brief second, I remembered Jesus’ death on the cross,

My mama would remind us every Easter;

“It is finished.”

Though most times she used that phrase to refer to her famous Easter fried chicken.

But who was I to utter same words?

I still had a life to live,

People to love and be there for,

Dreams to fulfil,

It wasn’t finished yet—

“I can’t breathe.”

Maybe if I shout it loud enough,

This man who represents the law, and the equality before the law will have pity on me,

That’s me hoping against hope, that this fellow who had total amnesia about my human right to life would somehow still let me live.

I can’t breathe, became my final words,

As he seized a life he had no power to give.

It doesn’t make sense!

Humans trying to play God,

Deciding who gets to live and who doesn’t,

Yet forgetting so soon,

That the God whose role they’re trying to play,

Created them black, white, diverse, colorful and tastefully different.

I hope my death makes more sense than the way I died.

-m.e.2020