Fifteen Minutes.

Standard

It don’t matter if you’re black or white

It don’t matter to me, little girl hiding behind your mama’s skirts, that your skin’s fairer than mine, that mine is darker than yours, and so it isn’t going to matter to you. It don’t matter to me that your skin looks like pretty pink roses when you blush. I look like I just got darker. I look like them berries on yonder bush, and I don’t care, and neither do you.

You don’t tell me who I can be friends with, coz you not my mama, and you ain’t got the damned right. And don’t you call them that, coz I can give you lotta names, and you don’t wanna hear ’em. You don’t wanna know what I can make you if I don’t like you.

Because where do you get off thinking that you can choose my friends?

We will stand to face it all, together- as sky falls.

We see the rocks coming in, flaming rocks, burning, meteorites. They’re headed straight for us, and I can already tell that running isn’t going to do a damned thing. So I do the only thing I can- the only thing that makes a mite of difference- the thing I swore I would do, back then in better times when blood was what flowed through our veins, and love meant together forever.

I take your hand, and we take that lump of flaming rock on our chests, together. Because sometimes there is no forever.

I’m breaking the habit tonight.

It’s blood on the walls, or perhaps it’s paint. I can’t tell the difference anymore, all I know is that I put it there. I can’t hear, but I can feel my throat hurting, and my mouth is open, so I guess I’m screaming again. It’s louder than anything I’ve ever heard before, so I cover my ears with hands that look like bleeding claws when I hold them before my eyes.

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