Ending Credits

When will we finally stop speaking life into caskets?

When will they show respect for a breathing body?

There are rules to whose blackness should be protected,
And a death certificate waiting for my name to be printed on it.
Waiting for our names to become simply just that,
A phrase. That will never be said loud enough to break silence.
Our names don’t even warrant the dignity of pronunciation.
They find no point in making a correction of a soul that can’t speak for itself anymore.
And even when they could, they never blinked an eye in that direction in the first place.
How we exist, invisible, and a target all at once. 
How we familiarize ourselves with mortality, long before grasping the idea of living.

How many buried bodies does it take to finally preserve the living?

How many ways can you murder me before finally being satisfied with the outcome?

I’m sure, soil is confused as to why we’re taking up so much of it’s space. 
That four walls can recognize the afflictions of our voice so easily now. 
I’ve seen my afterlife displayed for the whole world’s consumption.
Too many obituaries on standby.
Too many days filled with the prediction of mourning. 

So I ask, what’s a black life without already being labeled as a martyr? 
Without already having a home underground?
With knowing your death is no more than a replication. 

* * *

And In The End, They Still Live. Ode to Danez Smith’s “Dinosaurs in the Hood”

I want a film,
Where the ending credits aren’t a eulogy.
Where the last scene isn’t a mother getting ready for a funeral,
A child lacking their father,
A black screen calling for a moment of silence,
Or a 5 year glance into the future of a life,
Where one is not existing anymore.

A movie where the end is so unpredictable, I want it to be everlasting.
So present of life, I feel detached from reality for just a second.
Even if it means that one second will never be someone’s truth.
Even if it means I need to hibernate in the theater moments after so it doesn’t leave me.
I don’t need another movie immortalizing the death of a life that should’ve lived after the first
scene;
Don’t need another movie, where the title is an ode to a body that won’t be here to witness it
themselves.

Since when did black death become such a popular genre? 

I’ve learned to accept the slaughter of a black life is profitable on and off the camera.
That there will always be an audience for a lynching. 
How entrancing people will find a mutilated corpse.
How pretty my afterlife is….

Why does appreciation of a Black life always have to be through death?
How many more spaces will force themselves to be memorials?
How familiar our wardrobes became to knowing all black in case of unexpected mournings. 

Who writes with the purpose of healing the hurt nowadays?
Who views a black being and doesn’t visualize how pretty they can make our caskets? 

I’ve seen my death be written and directed with so much detail.
How many shots until this body has reached its breaking point? 
We so used to others taking action on our bodies.
So used to others deciding when our scene is over.

I don’t want my life to be someone’s feature film.
Don’t want to be depicted so much, this body now feels imaginary.
Why you gotta make my fantasies violent too?
Why even in dreams death seems so real. 

I want a movie, where my Blackness is not the opponent.
Where my death isn’t the solution to the plot.
A movie that shows love that’s not nurtured by agony. 
A Black woman who’s not the punching bag. 
A Black queer being who’s not the afterthought. 
A movie that makes rest seem attainable. 

Because even in real life, if we never make it past that opening scene,
Never make it to see our names in the ending credits,
Or sometimes, not even make it to the theater itself. 

For once,
Allow our bodies to know what peace is without it being a trick,
Without it being timed,
Without it seeming like a fairy tale.

For once, 
Let us live, 

just this one time.

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