“Ok, I will pick up food.”
I look at my fiancee’s texts and what if’s start haunting and taunting my mind. What if he doesn’t make it back to me because someone hates his skin? What if he gets pulled over? What if he stops for gas and someone hates his dreadlocks? What if he’s mistaken for someone else like so many times before?
I want to scream into the ether so that the universe and its inhabitants hear my potential wrath and quiver in its possible wake. Scream that if he dare leaves this world we’ve created within and around each other there will be exact hell to pay. The world will literally burn. There will be no mercy. No forgiveness. No solace. Just wrath.
I scroll through Shaun King’s Instagram posts and Flipboard’s mass shooting updates and Trump’s tweets and my non-POC friends’ non-reactions and my POC friends’ angered statuses and my own tortured thoughts and Lisa’s lost smile and a bubbling of burning rumbles in my gut. The urge to punch through their complacency punches through me and the potential wrath grows and rolls into a rotating roar, a billowing of soul smoke, a haze of punctual power.