There is old blood on the jack boots, darkening the bay’s reeds and rusting in the old stockades. The D.C. swamp is vomiting fumes into the street air while choking on the past.  The steel hulls are still floating, ships harboring the crows and rats, the parasites that once fed on black bodies ripped from their homes. America shared this feast with the small bugs and mammals–the crops and the money, the taxes, the pointed dehumanization and destruction of their life, spiced with blood and sweat and shoved down her greedy, piggish throat. The white gluttons grew angry when their plate was taken away, fearful they would die without their human feast, they found ways to siphon flesh like wolves stalking in the evenings–one attack every 28 hours, they’ve exchanged the southern grey for the union blues and state badges, stabbing and beating until the funerals become a constant, endless drone of dirges, leaving grief stripped naked on her knees and sobbing into the dirt full of corpses. They will then tell her is insane when she tries to hit them with her withered fists, when she throws stones in their direction, and trauma steals away her voice so she burns messages into her living room wall. This is the deepest violence, a severing of the spine of peace, to ask a mother to respect her son’s killers, to thank them for their protection, and then wonder why her voice turns to ash while you choke her. Do not ask why Baltimore burns today, America. Your ivory hands down her throat are the ones making her vomit sparks.


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