by Diku Rogers
There is a war on my people.
We are shot in churches
and school yards,
our own neighborhoods,
and our own homes.
We are slaughtered and forgotten
for the price of
white comfort.
We are buried
in a moment of
white silence.
We become the blame
for our own funerals.
Our memorials
become hashtags
that bleed through the timelines
of those who don't care
about this trending genocide.
There is a war on my culture.
Our music,
Our style,
Our features
are being stolen and then
worn as faux battle gear.
The world is trying to tell me
that I don't have claim
to my 4c hair,
my dark brown eyes,
my melanin,
my life.
There is a war on my people.
They tell us that
we don't matter.
They tell us that we kill ourselves
to distract from the fact
that they kill us too.
Where is the bunker for the black soul?
How do my people save themselves
from the silent assassin
that is white supremacy?
Things ain't so silent anymore.
They not just assassinating our character anymore.
They are killing us in broad daylight,
in the middle of the night,
in the late evening,
in our house of prayer.
What hour is sacred for the black soul?
Is it between 9 and 5?
Is it after midnight?
Where is our safe house?
Where do we set up camp
if they told us
we have no right to home base?
Why are my people's casualties
treated so casually?
This country never loved my people.
It only loves our labor.
Photo: Shutterstock
Diku Rogers is a rising senior in college and an English major. You can send her any thoughts, questions, or positive vibes via email: dikurogers@gmail.com.
