I walk past the whine of ambulances
Visual noise of cop cars
Someone got hit in white neighborhood
I walk past all the brown people getting stopped
And a white boy I used to fuck once
Who called me at three am once
A booty call
I called him out
And didn't have his number saved
A fluke for which I felt perversely proud
This dick ain't free
Appropriating anthems again.
You go ahead says a chocolate skinned girl to her white male companions if I walk over there imma get hit with sticks this country is a nebula imploding countdown until tomorrow's tomorrow
It's Election Day
Screams and shouts follow me into quiet side streets
Indistinguishable from typical Saturday noise, the rumbling
of the band.
The boy I used to fuck once didn't notice me
Though I smiled across the crosswalk
Because of the short time
In which our bodies
Inhabited shared space-
How funny
How funny it is to be uniformly broke
How funny it is to seethe over here with rage
The eyes so hungry
How funny that I can focus on this fuckboy’s dick
While a woman is afraid to cross the street because this country is blinded by melanin
I stay hidden in the shadows here, with the moon,
the murky rut. Red lights from sirens swirl,
these small footsteps cast shadows.
I watch my cowardice. Don’t tread on me.
Sara True is a visual and performance artist, writer, and traveler. She hails from Los Angeles and exhibits her artwork internationally. Her recent poems and essays have been published online at Entropy Mag, Anti-Heroin Chic, 805 Art+ Lit Mag, and others. Her work can be found online here and on Instagram.
