the last/first day

The letter board sign on my entertainment center still says last day of summer. 

Part of me hasn’t had the time or been home long enough to change it. But the other part of me knows that if I do… the reality of what happened on the first day of fall will be too real. 

The sadness. The anger. The guilt. The hate. The hollowness. And the downright grief from seeing our baby taken away from his family. 

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Since then more loss, more shootings, more jail visits, more days where getting out of bed seems too much weight to bare. 

Innocent bystanders asking me how I’m doing today where the answer feels like punishing them, or someone making a joke that don’t feel very funny at all. 

I don’t expect people to feel how I feel. 

I don’t expect people to fight how I fight. 

However, I am bothered that they still have some innocence. They have a light that hasn’t dimmed. They have a sense of safety. They periodically grieve for unknown individuals in a mass media post. I visit graves without tombstones because no one planned for this. 

I’m angry and passionate. 

Moving forward feels unfair to the dead or imprisoned. But laying in this emptiness isn’t right for the ones still here fighting to live. 

This is where I’m at. Hurt by people who “avoid politics” but ensure my people never truly exist above struggle and suffering, and preach from the good news of Facebook...

This heart of mine is so tired from shattering over and over again. And yet, it still beats. And I suppose that is the ultimate gift, and challenge.