Please, don’t shoot.
I understand that you may feel threatened by the richness
of my heritage but please, don’t shoot.
I’ve got hopes and dreams written down in my back pocket
journal and I hadn’t planed to achieve them all by the time I
turned 18 so please, give me a few more years.

My mother has shed her fair share of tears over the past few
years so please, don’t make her shed more.

I hear you shot down another young man who kind of looked
like me so I’m starting to feel like there’s some kind of bounty
on my head. Maybe God loved having me in his kingdom so
much that he offered a lifetime of fear hidden by
self-righteousness to whichever one of you who could send
me back to him the quickest.

It may tempt you but please, don’t shoot.

I know you hate the fact that I see the melanin in my skin as
a blessing but Mama warned me that I may as well be a
corpse if I don’t worship this epidermis.
Sometimes I don’t feel safe, like my feet are poking out from
underneath the duvet and on those days I hope the boogeyman
is fast asleep because I reckon I’m on the top of his hit list.
So please Mr Boogeyman, please, don’t shoot.

I’m losing faith in this bible because it isn’t bulletproof even
though the words are strung toughly together like my
grandmother’s love but even she got a hole in her heart.

These streets aren’t safe for me, and no matter how much
music blares out my white earphones, I can still hear your
eerie footsteps behind me in the back of my mind.
I can still envision the black-hole of your gun barrel nuzzled
against my forehead, making itself at home with the words
“nigga, nigga, motherfucking nigga, nigga” rushing out your
mouth like a stampede leaving every bone of my dignity
shattered and bleeding black ink on the ground.
my mama don’t deserve to see me like this.

If you decide to kill me, please don’t plant a gun on my body.
I don’t want my mother spending the rest of her days
questioning her parenting.
Mama, you did the best you could but you couldn’t have saved

I know my father used to wear a crown made of gold but all I
could find was this crown of thorns for myself… But my father’s
first son used to wear one so, if you decide to shoot, you’ll be
sending me home to Dad.

I’ll try and put in a good word for you.



Social anxiety isn’t “omg I hate people lol I wish I was sleeping and watching netflix!”

It’s “I want desperately to be able to hang out with people but I hate the feeling of sheer panic and fear I get around them so I don’t/ can’t and it eats away at me every day so I end up just staying home and say I’m sleeping or watching something”

(via luckolas)


It’s not friendship, it’s bromance. It’s not eyeliner, it’s guyliner. It’s not yoga, it’s broga. It’s not just silly portmanteaus, it’s evidence of the hilarious fragility of masculinity.

(via trangst)

" The West won the world not by the superiority of its ideas or values or religion but rather by its superiority in applying organized violence. Westerners often forget this fact, non-Westerners never do. "