I am awake at 4 am despite exhaustion in my bones. The mattress springs have rusted from the tears I cannot cry.
I am awake at 4 am because my body craves a poem, a witness to the mourning in my soul. A quiet death, invisible butterfly.
I am awake at 4 am as white supremacy digs its nine-inch heels into my flesh, insisting its innocence while demanding absolution.
I am awakened by the sight of the seemingly endless distance between shades of skin and the realities we live in, miles I cannot close on my own.
When cognitive dissonance tastes like wine, drunk, we await our savior while entertaining fantasies of Utopia and vomit our medicine.
Not me. I am alone on this bridge. I built it, but they didn’t come. Somewhere a child understands they are not anymore.
I am awake at 5:30.
I am awake at 6 am.
I am awake, here gather all my strength.
The Lion roars at dawn.