If you love me

If you love me
it is the same as loving fire.

At some point
you will be
burned.

Not because I want to burn you,
   but that is the nature of fire;
to burn.

I can be calm,
unassuming,
like the flicker of a campfire
or
a candle's flame.

But there will be times
where I rage;
  out of control,
  full of anguish,
  of wrath.

It is in my nature
  to burn quietly
or
  rage out of control.

Would you ask the ocean to
stop kissing the shore?
Would you ask the winds to
never whip the trees?

As romantic as it may seem to be in love
with the flame,
you must know,
that someday it will burn you.

Some day it is going to sweep through,
destroying everything in its wake.

And I will try to hold it back.
I will try to never let you see,
but there is a trail of
ashes.

And I am what I am.

Safety.

Her son won't come home.
His new home is decorated with headstones.
He wears maggots as one would evening wear.
He no longer sings.
He no longer laughs.
He longer breathes.
He can't breathe.

Her son won't be coming home.
What should've promised safety,
should've protected him,
murdered him for holding a toy,
a sandwich, his hands in the air.
He doesn't play anymore.

They murder our fathers
and condemn us for our fatherless lives.
They murder our husbands
and mock our single parenting skills.
We can't run for fear of accusations,
justifications, "precautions."

Her son won't be coming home anymore.
Another Emmett Till for a different era.
Another Michael Brown.
Another Tamir Rice.
Another Eric Garner.

We Can't Breathe.