I didn’t sleep last night. I kept seeing the red-inkblot of unjustly spilled blood spreading across that plain white t-shirt whenever I closed my eyes. I can’t imagine that you slept much either.

There is no rest when the blood of your brothers and sisters cries out from the ground for justice.

I’m tired.

*We* are tired.

We. Are. *Tired*

Tired of the unavoidable broken record of black death playing on every channel of social media and television.

Tired of the fine print — the terms and conditions –that seem permanently attached to our constitutional rights

Tired of both the crickets and the recriminations-disguised-as-advice from people who claim to know Jesus.

Tired of the unending wait for Justice.

Tired of the denial, the delusional rewriting and white washing of history; tired of the endless justification for a live broadcast execution.

Tired of being told to “go back to where we came from” as if our lineage doesn’t stretch across centuries, as if our blood hasn’t been spilled for this stolen land. As if our very bodies weren’t the venture capital of American Exceptionalism.

Tired of 397 years of maintaining the same inequitable and unjust status quo.

But more than anything else:

Tired of the fear that settles anvil-heavy and takes up residence just below your ribs when you realize that you cannot protect your own children from this fate. That there is not enough money or education or perfect manners or respect that you can provide that will prevent this happenstance of skin coloring in this specific societal context from entering them into this lottery of death.

My God, I am tired.

Two types of tired

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