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I AM TRAYVON MARTIN’S MOM

BY NAJAH SCRUSE
AUGUST 2013

Words pour out of my mouth like vomit

To a bulimic, but still no one seems to hear my pleas.

I want you to understand

That I lost my mind of peace

Because I lost my son to a nine piece

And insanity has captured me

Into the hells of disparity.

Murdered with a hoodie, skittles and a tea.

 

Triple minority.

Young, black, male.

Perhaps I should’ve had his death

Certificate early.

You praise the drama of this case.

You worship the blood in my child’s name.

And you think the only thing I want is fame?

I hope you choke and gag on your

Lies until the truth explodes from your

Eyes and people will see the monsters

In the white hats.

 

A broken heart created by an innocent

Verdict, what’s the difference between

Zimmerman and the serpent.

Remind me when did murder become so heroic?

Come and see my son on display.

In a bloody heap with red coated skin

And a chest with a bullet hole within.

 

“You people with your dark skin and Nappy hair.”

The same people that you demoralize and criminalize.

The same people that you hunt down

To stroke your sadistic ego while

You look down your nose at the black folks.

 

72 hours of wordless sentences

And no voices to tell me my son was

Lying listless, deathly quiet and hollowed.

Nobody told me that I would be

Convicted as a malicious opportunist

That craves trash cans full of the

Same money that paid Zimmerman.

Nobody told me that my blood would

Be spilled onto cement, stained by its

Existence, revealing the once living.

Nobody told me it was my son.

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