There Is No Armor in Suits


There is no armor

in suits or ties,

they will not protect

you from the lies of

distance from blackness

and white rage through

masking performances of respectability

No,

death does not reside

in sweet tea and hoodies

and dialects as long

and black

as locs on the back

Rastafarian adherents.

There is no safety in proper

speech,

it will not protect from the systemic leach

that feeds on your essence,

leaving you with a shell

of blackness

cowering in shadows of

professionalism where only

your resume shines brightly

telling stories of jobs

and degrees you’ve held

and been cut through

pounds of flesh never

bled so hard

in silence

if only there were armor

in suits

and ties

and lovers

and guys that thought

they could protect by being

new and black

and shiny

new blacks.

No.

Disarming yourself of blackness

will you leave you naked in the

frigid grip of loneliness and white supremacy

burning your spirit cold

like fingers left

out of gloves

in a Boston

Snowmeggond

There is no armor

for those place

the scalpel

on their

own flesh

and of that of those

born whole

and

black

and self loving. There is no

armor in suits, just bodies

with a ill-fitting designs

that mangle and constrain

the brains of peoples

once free

once one

once home,

in no need of armor.

More lies I swallow

as I knot my tie.

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