“Nothing About It”

They said,
"Don’t make it about race."
As the chalk outlines spoke louder
than our names,
and sirens carved silence into our streets
like it was justice
sharpened to a blade.

They said,
"It’s just a few bad apples,"
while the orchard rotted root to leaf,
and uniforms became armor
against truth,
not against crime.

They said,
"You should’ve complied."
As knees crushed necks
and bullets answered
questions never asked.
Compliance was a coffin,
and even silence
was too loud.

They said,
"Why are you so angry?"
But never asked what it’s like
to be hunted in your own skin,
to teach your children
how not to die
in the presence of a badge.

They said,
"Don’t protest like that."
As if mourning
needs permission.
As if grief must wear a smile
to be heard.

They said,
"There’s nothing wrong."
While bodies fall,
names become hashtags,
and the blindfold of Lady Justice
slips conveniently
to one side.

They said,
"Don’t make it about race."
But racism made it
about everything—
and they did nothing
about it.