The Stranger in your Bed

And we’ll remain here, listening to their graves speak in activism.

We are here

Teaching our lips to part in prayer over marble tombstones

Teaching our angry hearts to grieve loving souls
But still remain humble enough to greet men with faces mirroring our daughters’ killers.

Our daughters’ husbands

Our daughters’ lovers

See when grey women bury children as young as the love they once had for black men,
 All grass tend to wither at the sight of tears forgetting they carry the power of the rain.

All grass withers, it bows, making path to pallbearers dressed in emotionless faces.

But flowers somehow still bloom in obedience to falling coffins.

Because beautiful things have a way of honouring the ones who love them the most.

They are here

Murderers, Rapists killing living parts of happy homes

They are here

Reformed Iscariots wearing tight-fit suits and happy socks like there’s something colourful in the lives they’ve lived

Isn’t it amazing? That somewhere there’s a woman saying I do to a rapist who was never caught.

That today you might be going to bed next to a man with blood on his hands?

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