by Ness White

Not sure where to begin and there is no end.

That’s part of the problem, isn’t it?

There’s never actually been an end to injustice. To Black bodies being murdered. To Black bodies being murdered by the state. And there have always been illnesses -- physical, mental, emotional. Spiritual. There is no end, not one that I can see.

Why am I so tired? Why am I so tired? I’m only 33. My eyes are heavy and I haven’t really even cried yet. I almost don’t want to because I don’t know when the tears will stop. I want to be happy. I want you to see me happy.

I was afraid to leave the house today. Not because of the coronavirus but because of the police. There’s not many Black folks up here, not like there were when my partner, Nia, and I lived in Brooklyn. But still, I thought, what if they want to retaliate for the lootings and the fires? And not just the police. That big truck, those big trucks we just passed -- what if they turn around and run us off the road? What if they turn around and follow us home?

My shoulders hurt today. My neck was sore. My chest was tight. That’s a sign of the virus but also the result of systemic racism. My body is afraid and has been for a long time, even as my mind tries to tell her to be quiet. Even as I smile like everything is fine. Even when I’m not talking about it my body is screaming.

I’m breathing and I’m lucky for it. Even though that’s my right. Our right.

I don’t know what else to write. I’m just tired. Angry. Sad.

I wonder how I’ll feel in another 32 years.

If I’m lucky enough to make it.